Grazed Knees
by portmanroxsmysoxs
Summary: After years in service to The Order, Ron Weasley is called upon for a special mission... to look after a fallen comrade. Will he let the woman who shattered his life heal over? Or will he just widen the rift between them? HrR.
1. Proposition

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP:(

**A/N:** Okay, guys, here I am again! I know I've got another story going on right now (which you should definately check out after this one!), but this just came to me earlier. I felt like doing a serious fic, and this one is garunteed to be a multiple-chapter one!

It's Ron/Hermione, as always. I'm imagining it four years after DH, when they're all around twenty-one or twenty-two. That's all I'm gonna give away!

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He had just settled at his desk to finish up a couple of expense reports by the light of the living room fire when the familiar notes of the doorbell chimed down the hall, beckoning him to abandon the warmth of the room and attend to his chilly, winter visitor. He sighed, threw down his quill haphazardly, and tripped out of the room in a hurry.

When the door swung open, Ron Weasley was greeted not only by an officious-looking man clad in regulation Order robes, but a nasty gust of frigid wind. This prompted him to invite his recognized guest into the apartment's foyer for a quiet chat.

"Thanks!" the stocky, young man chirped, grinning and blowing on his chapped hands as he stepped over the threshold and began stamping bits of mud and snow from his boots.

The couple seated themselves comfortably in opposite-facing chairs in a cramped – albeit cozy – foyer. Ron summoned some coffee for his guest, which was received gladly.

"So, why're you here, Seamus? It's ten-thirty at night," the lanky man smiled, his blue eyes gleaming with possibilities. "Have you got another assignment to send me on? Merlin, I hope so. He knows I need something to do."

Seamus, his childish face weathered by the cold, had shaved his head – by the strict rules of The Order – and had tattooed the side of his neck and the whole of his chest with a memorial to his family, whom he had lost in a postwar Muggle attack in the south of Ireland some years back. He was dressed in deep black robes with the crest of the Order sewn on the breast pocket, gleaming in the candlelight. Everyone who was anyone knew that Seamus' whole life was The Order – he devoted himself entirely to the cause after his loss – and frequented his friends with requests of undercover co-op missions.

Presently, he held the mug of steaming tea under his reddened chin, inhaling the scent of the welcoming drink. The aroma stole through his mind, calming him enough to keep his lips from shaking. "Well," he murmured, appearing as though musing over the question, "yes and no."

In actuality, Seamus knew the exact details of Ron's next mission, he was simply worrying over how to deliver them to his friend in a manner that wouldn't upset him too much. It held delicate information – things that could potentially cause Ron to become erratic and extreme.

Ron adjusted himself in the worn cushions of his chair. His mother had graciously "donated" them when he had finally settled down. The two chairs were the only pieces of furniture in the whole flat that matched. But he had no reason to complain, he lived comfortably enough as a bachelor – it wasn't as if anyone else cared.

Seamus took another therapeutic sip before setting the cup down on the table between them. He rubbed his face with his hands, eyes shut tight. Ron noticed a new picture on the back of his hand – a Gallic cross – but tore his gaze away when Seamus let his hands drop onto his lap.

"The Order needs your help. It's not a huge job, but it's time consuming." Seamus fixed his eyes on Ron's," It's also extremely top-secret, so I don't want this conversation to wander outside this room."

Ron nodded seriously, his heart beginning to beat faster in anticipation. He hadn't been on assignment for months – no administrator had owled him since the Greenland mission in early January. He hadn't been in peak condition since then, either, and that's the reason he chose when looking for blame. Images of scouring mountaintops, trekking through forests, bursting in on renegades flew in front of his eyes, his lust for adventure returning fully.

"What is it, then?" Ron gripped the arms of his chair subconsciously, "Out with it, Seamus. Just tell me what I'm to do and I'll do it." An uneasy grin curled across his lips.

"It's about Agent 21," Seamus told him in a strangled, wary voice, avoiding Ron's eyes. He waited, his pulse pounding, to see how his friend would react.

Ron sat for a moment, the name not registering in his mind. The Order had assigned numbers for their undercover agents a few years ago – it was lighter on filing and it made secrecy easier. The lower numbers were people who had been with The Order since the beginning – Dumbledore was Agent 1. As far has Ron knew, they were up to Agent 259. He himself was number 22.

That meant that Hermione Granger was 21.

The room seemed to shrink around him, the air suddenly buzzing in his ears. His neck began to feel hot and then his face burned, her name throbbing, coursing throughout his body. Ron curled his fists tightly around the arms of the chairs, feeling slight release in the tear of the fabric against his nails.

Seamus watched with baited breath as his friend curled up into himself, trying to physically suppress the urge to lash out at him. He grew scared as the skin on Ron's jaw trembled, his teeth pressed tightly together like a dog's bare.

"Ron -" Seamus said, his breath caught painfully in his throat, unsure of what to say next.

"What about her?" Ron snapped ferociously, his head pistoning up. His voice quavered in self-suppression. "What on God's green Earth possessed you to come here and tell me jack shit about her?"

Seamus cleared his throat and stared fixedly at Ron, trying to summon the cool-headedness his training had bored into his demeanor. "She's been hurt, Ron – badly." He figured if he could convey utter seriousness, Ron would put aside his anger and listen to what he had to say.

"As long as she's still breathing, I don't give a damn," Ron barked, feeling the tips of his ears burn.

Seamus breathed through his nose, his sense of reason quickly dissipating. Ron was hardheaded and unforgiving – two qualities that kept him from many Auror's mission lists. What he could not understand, though, was how he kept his past so readily on his mind. He felt a spark of hatred in his chest, so ready to lash out and remind Ron that he should be thankful she was alive, that at least his friends and family still had breath in their lungs.

"Ron," Seamus began slowly, shutting his eyes. He felt his chest tighten.

"_What_."

Seamus reeled at the current of hatred carried by Ron's voice.

"Hermione was sent undercover two years ago to collect information on a growing cult of neo-Death Eaters. She submerged herself as one of them and was quite convincing for the most part. We rebuked half their attacks on the Ministry thanks to her information. But when it was time for her to leave –"

Ron flung himself out his chair, his fingers unfeeling. He was set on doing anything but listening to Seamus, he would do anything to get the sound of his voice out of his head. He didn't – and wouldn't – feel anything for someone like Hermione Granger.

"Ron!" Seamus barked in a voice very unlike his own – it was low and authoritative, one he reserved only for the direst of situations or the deadliest of interrogations.

Ron spun around, catching himself against the doorframe. "I don't see what any of this has to do with me… or a mission, for that matter. Just throw her in St. Mungos and leave me the hell alone," he spat, and started off down the hallway.

Seamus was on his feet in a second, following after Ron with quick, heavy footsteps. "Ron, listen to me!" he shouted after Ron's fleeting back.

Ron stalked into the living room and set himself down in the chair by his desk, intent on doing his expense reports, Seamus or no Seamus.

Seamus stood in the middle of the room, glowering down at the man he used to call a friend, a confidant. Confusion spread through him, but his sense of hatred dulled that.

"They found out about her three weeks ago Ron, trying to sneak away. They kidnapped her," Seamus spat, vile working its way up his throat.

Ron didn't sway, he didn't even blink. The numbers and letters on the form in front of him swam in front of his eyes. His fists tightened in his hair with every word Seamus spoke.

"They _tortured_ her," Seamus yelled, his voice cracking. "The gang nearly killed her –"

Ron stood up quickly and darted out of the room, throwing off Seamus' attempt at blocking the door. He was hell-bent on relieving himself of his nightmare that Seamus had brought upon him. He began to stalk up the cluttered staircase, sending paperwork and boxes in an avalanche behind him.

Seamus followed amazingly fast, picking his way expertly through the waves of trash.

"They nearly killed her, Ron!" he repeated, rage searing through his mind. "She was kept hostage for two weeks until we found out about her and sent a rescue team to –"

Ron reached the bathroom – the only door with a lock on it – and slammed it shut tightly behind him.

Seamus stopped in front of it, feeling claustrophobic in the tiny hallway. He felt blind with madness and pounded ferociously on the door, willing it to shatter under his fist.

"She wasn't even breathing when I carried her out of the hole they put her in!" Seamus screamed, beating the door. "They buried her alive! She was in the ground for a day and a half before my team found her!" He felt as though a whole other person would burst out of him, his anger built up in his throat and quickened his pulse and bulged out his eyes.

"Ron!" Seamus yelled, wanting an answer. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

Ron did not answer, not even a sarcastic retort. He sat on the lid of the john with his head in his hands. His large, worn hands were shaking, even though they were being pressed hard into his scalp. His head shook.

"Ron!" Seamus barked again, feeling his fury fade into tired resentment. "You're a bastard." He slumped against the wall next to the door, a heap of robes and limbs, panting. He swiped a hand across his face, the tiniest of tears catching on the cross.

Neither man spoke for a while.

"That's the reason I'm here, Ron," Seamus said, exhausted from his outburst. "We _can't_ put her in Mungos. She's too big a security hazard. Granted the hospital is the safest place in England, but this group – The Shop, they call themselves – is growing. Hermione lived with them for almost two years. They want her dead and they get what they want."

Ron slumped forward, his forehead pressed tightly against his knees. He didn't want to think about her – Hermione Granger was dead already, for all he cared. All the memories from after the war came flooding through his mind, flowing and clogging, some fading away and some more brilliant than ever. It was just too much. Ron collapsed onto the cool, tiled floor of the loo. His chest heaved painfully, as if crying with no air left in his body.

"You can draw your own conclusions from here, Weasley," Seamus spat quietly. "She updated her contacts information at headquarters before she left – your name was top priority. She wants you to take care of her." Seamus shook his head, running his calloused hands over the peach fuzz growing on the top of his head.

"Why she chose you, I'll never understand."

Ron lay on his back, eyes staring upwards at the blank whiteness of the ceiling. It felt like an escape in itself. The floor felt cold against his back, serving as something attaching him back to the Earth again, something keeping him in his own skin. He began to calm, choosing to listen to Seamus instead of dwell on the tragedy that was Hermione Granger.

"That's what the mission is – it's not even a mission," Seamus sighed, looking about him. He figured he'd just keep talking and then let himself out of the flat. Obviously Ron didn't want his company, but this was official Order business. Something that had to be done.

Ron let his eyes drift close.

"She needs to be someplace safe and quiet," Seamus continued, studying the hallway of Ron's apartment. The wallpaper was peeling; it was an ugly, faded brown. Most of the doors had chips and paint seeped into their frames, and clothes spilled out of one room like the carcass of a dead animal. All in all, Ron had a dingy, dimly-lit home, but it was warm and cozy and somewhere Hermione could stay and recover. "And since you put an Untraceable on this place a year before you moved in, no one could find you – or more importantly, her."

Ron let his thoughts wander; he already understood what was being asked of him. He considered the prospect of seeing her again, hearing her laugh floating around the hallways, smelling her shampoo on the sheets and chairs, listening to her soft, witty chattering over the dinner table. It overwhelmed Ron – even trying to bring up her face in his mind was difficult. His head throbbed against the tiles.

"I'm not really here to ask if you'll do it, Ron," Seamus said, sounding like his father. It surprised him and his shoulders slumped in frustration. "It's more I'm here to tell you what's going to happen."

"What if I refuse?" Ron's voice was deathly soft. He spoke as though he had just woken up, his throat gravelly and low.

Seamus thumped his head against the wall, his eyes shut tight against an approaching migraine. "Then you'll probably be discharged, Ron. The Order doesn't need members who refuse to participate – especially those who are young, educated, and able. If you were a 50-year-old single mother with nine kids and three bedrooms, then maybe you'd be pardoned. But you're you, Ron, and there's no excuse not to."

There was a silence.

"Besides," Seamus said with an eerie calm, "she was your best friend, once-upon-a-time."

"_Was."_

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**A/N: **How'd you like it????? You should definately let me know in a review!

Love, Katie


	2. Face to Face

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP, sadly!

**A/N: **First off, I just want to give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed!!! I can't believe you guys are so great. It really, really made my week. :)

Anyway, here's chapter two - sorry if it's a bit short. I've already got the third one written, so expect updates on a weekly basis, okay? Okay, sounds good.

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"You ready to go?" Seamus asked the Attending.

A man dressed in formal, dark blue robes stood next to him, holding half of a stretcher. He was one of three attending nurses sent by St. Mungos to help The Order deliver Agent 21 to her hospice. The man nodded softly and shifted the weight of the handles to a more comfortable position.

Seamus straightened the collar on his own robes before ringing the doorbell. He couldn't believe it had already been a week since he had seen Ron – since he had stood here, on the man's porch, about to deliver the shock of his life – and wondered how their intended meeting would go.

Ron had caved in an hour after Seamus gave up. He had fallen asleep for a pinch, awakening to the sound of Ron's voice agreeing to the deal. They went over a plan and eventually, Ron edged his way out of the bathroom looking as if he had lost a pint of blood. He was shaky and snappish and rude, but Seamus didn't mind. He had finally found a place for Hermione to recuperate in peace and quiet, with no threat from The Shop at all.

Seamus smiled as a small craving voiced itself in the back of his head: how he wished Harry was there with him. Harry could deliver her, calm Ron down, and sort the whole mess out. Harry could do anything. He shook his head, frowned, squared his shoulders, and waited.

The door swung open and Ron backed away from the entrance slowly and silently. Seamus looked over his shoulder at the three men and cocked his head, a motion to say 'let's go.' The group of men walked in without speaking and Ron led them upstairs to his bedroom. He only had one bed and that would be for Hermione to use. He had already configured the coat closet into a makeshift guest room for himself.

Seamus lagged behind in the doorframe and watched as the men carefully placed a limp, lithe body upon the neatly made bed. The curtains were drawn on the windows above the bed, but small rays of moonlight crept through the fabric and lay lazily across her pale face and skinny limbs. One of the nurses covered her with a quilt, then turning to help the other two set up a medicine table.

His head snapped up when he heard the floorboards creak behind him. Ron was standing a few feet behind him at the top of the stairs, looking haggard and weary.

"You're doing a good thing," Seamus assured him, his past anger completely vanquished. Now he only felt sympathy for the man standing in front of him.

Ron nodded solemnly. "I have to," he answered quietly.

Seamus silently led them down the stairs and into the kitchen. He helped himself to the pot of hot coffee and poured an extra mug for Ron. As he handed the cup to his comrade, Seamus asked, "Did anyone stop by or let you know what you're supposed to do or how any of this is going to work?"

Ron shook his head, accepting the mug as if it were offered to him by a stranger. He stared at it, seemingly amazed. "I got an owl that told me I'd be paid monthly for her expenses, but that was it."

Seamus nodded, feeling an incredible sense of pity for Ron. He didn't know all the details, but he knew that after the war ended, Ron and Hermione had grown very close. It ended badly a year later and she had gone undercover – he never heard from her until the past week. Considering Ron's unforgiving qualities and Hermione's determination to stay hidden, Seamus guessed that whatever transpired between them must've hurt them both very badly.

"Well, yeah, you'll get a sum for her food and dress," he validated Ron's statement and went on. "Hermione sleeps all day. She's not in a coma, but we keep her in one for the time being. She's hurt," he sighed heavily, "she's been hurt very badly. Her body can't cope with staying awake and managing to heal itself at the same time."

He dug into his pockets and produced a list. He held it out in front of him, taking a sip of the coffee. "This is a list of the medication she's on right now – mostly it's just a sleeping draught, a calming draught, a healing draught, a weekly bath in murtlap –"

"I studied potions intensively… for _years_," Ron snapped softly, "I know how to care for everything. I know all my advanced charms. I'm not a buffoon – I don't need a list."He waved away the scrap of paper and walked across the kitchen, his feet shuffling softly beneath him, the mug still hot in his grasp.

"I know," Seamus sighed, knowing how intelligent Ron actually was in the field of healing. It was his specialty and probably the reason Hermione had chosen him as her Contact Number One.

"Just tell me the hexes they hit her with and what she's taking right now. I know what to do after that," Ron mumbled, dumping his drink down the sink and nestling the small of his back against the edge of the countertop.

Seamus studied his friend in his state of stupor. Ron was a tall man – a very tall man – standing at six-five. He had rust-colored hair that was usually kept extremely short and vibrant blue eyes that shone out over his mass of freckles. But now, somehow, Ron seemed muted. His slump reduced him to a smaller man. His pallor was pale, his eyes dull, and his hair non-existent. He was wilting.

"She's not going to improve for several weeks," Seamus began again, the paper still lying between his fingers. "So the routine is pretty simple. You won't have to feed her much – just make sure she stays comfortable."

"I know what to do," Ron repeated in that strange, calm manner. He studied the floor. "And I will."

Seamus nodded, standing by his friend. He placed a hand upon Ron's skinny shoulder. "She needs you… and all of us at The Order thank you greatly, Ron. She probably wouldn't survive if it weren't for you."

Ron nodded slightly, his head wobbling upon his neck.

"She's sleeping right now, o'course," Seamus continued, "You probably won't have to see her until tomorrow afternoon. She needs that murtlap bath-"

"I get it, mate," Ron repeated, finally looking Seamus in the eye. "I understand you." His eyes shut and his hand ravaged quickly over his sunken face. "I just don't know how I'm going to get through this. If it were anyone else…"

His voice trailed off into nothingness. The two men stood in the cramped kitchen of Ron's flat and listened to the footsteps above them. They heard the muted voices of the nurses and the soft dragging of furniture legs against the honeyed oak floors. It seemed calming, soothing, to both of their minds. A tranquil peace settled on the friendship between them – Seamus realized that Ron was just being Ron, but had manned up in the end. Ron understood that Seamus was just doing what The Order wanted him to do, but still held a minute amount of resentment towards him.

Seamus and the St. Mungos staff left a little while later. Ron closed the front door quietly, the list of Hermione's daily schedule – and those to come – clutched in a cold fist. He watched them shuffle down to the corner of his street and apparate, and then went directly to the kitchen to pour himself a large glass of brandy.

Sitting nestled in his living room chair, Ron watched the fire crackle and dance. He sipped the alcohol and reveled in its warm aftertaste. He thought of his guest sleeping soundly in his bed upstairs. He sat unmoving for an hour or so, before setting the half-empty glass on the floor and hesitantly climbing the stairs. He felt sufficiently numb enough to endure whatever sight was held behind his bedroom door. Once his hand was on the knob, twisting it lightly, Ron realized he was about to see Hermione for the first time in two years. He stopped immediately.

What would she look like? The last he saw of her, she was a small thing guising a very powerful body. Her eyes were a dark green and her hair swirled down to her waist. He still remembered the way it swished the last day they had been together – the way her soft curls had discretely moved against her face as she turned to walk out the door to go to the market. She had been dressed in her jeans and jumper, her hair let down in all its glory, a brilliant smile beaming from behind her soft, red lips.

And then she had simply vanished.

Ron's hand hurt as he griped the knob tightly, the edges of the glass cutting into his palm. He turned it with a jerk and the door fell open in front of him. His first couple of steps were cautious and clumsy – as if he were entering the room for the first time.

Actually, the room _had_ changed since he had been in there last. The usually small room had doubled in size. There were windows lining every wall with heavy curtains drawn over them. There was a fireplace against the main wall, crackling and dancing just like the one he had been sitting in front of minutes ago. His bed had been pushed against the wall to his right – into the corner. The bureau was in the other corner, two suitcases sitting next to it. To his left was his desk and another – new – table with bottles and rags adorning it.

A list was tacked to the fireplace – more instructions, Ron guessed, about how to care for a woman he had known practically his entire life. He cursed internally and stepped fully into the room, a new rug under his bare feet. He barely noticed.

Ron was almost scared to look at the body occupying his bed. He hated everything there was about Hermione Granger, but his curiosity slightly muted his anger for the time being. He was more interested in knowing what had happened to her – had she grown? Had she shrunk? Faded? Or simply become more beautiful?

He felt a burning sensation flow through his face as he approached the stranger, his chest expanding and contracting alarmingly fast. Soon, Ron was standing close enough to the bed to reach out and touch her – to stroke what was left of her hair, to smooth the blankets covering her broken body, to grasp her frail hand and press it to his cheek. But he did none of that – instead, he merely stared. Open-mouthed and still, Ron looked upon the woman he once knew.

Hermione had not shrunk, had not grown, had not faded, and had not become more beautiful. She was still the same physical body he knew. Ron recognized her petite, rose-colored mouth, set nose, and arched eyebrows under all the bruises and stark-white bandages. He instantly discerned her dark lashes and amazingly tiny ears poking out from beneath her gruesome façade. Hermione was still Hermione, albeit the bleeding lip and broken nose. She had a settled, assured face – Ron assumed that she still retained the same endearing and hard mindset she had left with.

Then, Ron was crumpled on the ground, crying. His legs were twisted beneath him, his arms thrown over his head, his face contorted horrifically. She was so _small_, just _lying _there, looking as if she was _supposed_ to be there, so _sure_ of herself even in so much pain. He couldn't believe that she was really back. He had just imagined it as a dream before – but now he had tangible proof of her existence.

Ron wept for a while. His great gasps and heaves settled into useless whimpering and coughs. He held his face in his hands, feeling his tears drip through his fingers and puddle on the floor. Then, he got up and walked to the guest room, his mind devoid of any rational thought.

He promptly fell asleep.

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**A/N: **Did you like it???? It's kind of hard writing when there's only one concious person in the whole story. :/ It gets better, though. 

Please leave a review - suggestions are welcome. :)

Love, Katie


	3. Asleep

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :(

**A/N: **Here's a longer chapter, because it's Christmas! I hope everybody had a great holiday... and THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH for the reviews. I can't believe how many there were!! I was so excited. So, thank you.

Anyway, here's the third chapter. Be careful of the swearing. :)

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The mattress was creaky. It moaned and groused at slight movements, simply screamed at rolling over or getting up. Ron cursed loudly as the springs shrilled at his perturbation of their stillness. His eyes opened wearily, squinting in the mid-afternoon light. He had slept for countless hours, lulled by the brandy and sheer exhaustion. He tried to rub his face, but his shoulder – and the mattress beneath him – voiced its lamentation at his decision. Pain spread through his chest and his headache came back full-force.

Rolling over, he groaned. Only the cool, winter air across his face soothed him. Ron stumbled out of bed, wondering what had happened… and where the hell he was. He wasn't fully awake enough to realize that he had slept in the configured 'guest room' and that this room was a coat closet, not his bedroom.

"Shit," he whispered, straightening himself and stretching. His fingers brushed the craggy surface of the ceiling. The closet was not the roomiest of spaces.

Ron decided to discard the notion of showering or dressing and went simply to make himself a Sheppard's pie. Chewing slowly, he remembered the list that sat in the living room. He shuffled down the hallway and found it under the coffee table.

Hermione needed eight draughts in the day and two in the night. She had to be bathed in essence of murtlap once – preferably twice – a week. She also needed her limbs exercised once in a while to prevent muscle shrinkage and needed her bandages replaced twice a week to prevent infection. A pang of fear exploded in Ron's chest as his eyes fluttered over the parchment – Hermione had already gone several hours without her sleeping draught.

Without thinking, he bolted down the hallway in bare feet, taking the stairs four at a time. He threw open the bedroom door and stopped, searching frantically for Hermione.

She was lying in the same position the nurses had laid her in the day before, her face still set the same way. Ron breathed a sigh of relief that seemed to rid him of the pressure lying in the bottom of his chest. He prepared the draught and brought it to her, his hands shaking. He was unsure of how, exactly, to feed it to her.

Ron held it to her mouth, letting the red liquid stain her lips. He was in a trance, touching the rough skin on her face, opening her jaw slightly. He could hear his breath in his ears; feel the blood throbbing in his veins.

Suddenly, her lips trembled. A scratchy breath – something like a faraway creaking door – sounded. Ron flew back from her, as if possessed. The noise came from her throat again. He crouched on the floor, frozen. The whimper continued.

"Hermione…?" Ron croaked; eyes wide in amazement.

When Ron saw her lids flutter lightly, he regained his senses fast enough to dart forward and pour the rest of the draught in her opened, crying mouth. He massaged her throat slowly, softly. She swallowed. The rasping ceased.

"Shit, Hermione," he snapped, unable to control himself. "You can't just do that." Annoyed, he set the empty container on the floor and walked briskly from the room. He reveled darkly in the fact that he had several hours to enjoy before having to dote on his new guest again.

He spent the afternoon staring at his paperwork. He tried to fill in the spaces with number and names, but the information evaded him. His mind wandered aimlessly with each passing hour. The room grew dark, but the fire remained unlit. Finally, in complete frustration, Ron threw down his quill and returned to his bedroom.

"You think this is funny?" he asked the corpse lying in the bed. "You think that you can just do this to me? You think that you can just come back and everything's going to be okay?" He flung out his hands and furrowed his brow. "Well, it's _not_, Hermione. That's not the way it's going to work."

Ron paced the room, unsure of what, exactly, he was doing. He pressed his hands against his bald scalp. "I don't know how this is going to work, Hermione," he said, turning to her from across the rug, "but I sure as hell know that when you get better, you are going to pay for what you did."

He turned and peered out the window, watching the moonlight play across the backyard scene. "I'm not forgiving you," he said loudly, "you couldn't beg me enough." Ron felt anger well in his chest, burning and twisting. "You think that you could just leave me with no explanation?" He whirled around, facing her. "You left me – you said you had to go to the _market_, not headquarters – and you never came back." Abhorrence and despair quickened his blood, making him feel appallingly powerful.

"You left me with nothing, Hermione," he spat, feeling the tears again. "And you are not going to make me cry over this bullshit again! I did that already!" His fists clenched.

Ron crossed the room and came inches from her face, wanting to be intimidating, fearful. He was so close he could see the scars on her chin that healed over months ago, the scars lining her cheeks that still bled. "I waited for you!" he screamed at her, rage shaking his limbs. "I waited for you for two fucking years!"

He waited, wanting her to do something – anything – to give him justification. He was right and sound in his anger and he wanted her to acknowledge it. When she didn't, Ron felt himself tremble with uneasiness.

What was he _doing?_

He shook his head, ridding himself of the angry thoughts still trapped in his throat. He gasped, feeling strangely defeated. Even in an argument where she wasn't a participant, Hermione seemed to prevail as the victor.

"You ruined my life," Ron whispered, backing away from her. "You shouldn't have come back."

---

Ron spent the rest of the evening fuming in the kitchen, making himself supper. The fact he had to go back and see her day after day after day hounded him, making him feel guilty for yelling, but vindicated at the same time. He convinced himself that somehow, someway, Hermione could hear him. It had happened numerous times before – coma patients able to hear their loved ones, but unable to reply – and Hermione was extraordinary to begin with. He hoped she felt the repulsion that haunted him.

As he cleaned the dishes, wiping them gently and rhythmically, Ron sighed. He glanced out the window over the sink and watched the neighborhood kids playing in the park across the street. They were shrieking and laughing, their arms thrown open as wide as their smiles. It had been two weeks since Christmas and the snow hadn't stopped falling since then. That meant that the kids hadn't been in public school for a while. He wondered what kind of torture Hermione had endured on Christmas day.

Shaking his head, Ron blew out the candle and went upstairs to feed his companion her necessary calming draught. He did it swiftly, barely even glancing at her in the complete darkness he had left the room in. Why bother to waste the oil when all she did was sleep?

That night, Ron took all the directions to bed with him. He read them late into the night, a single candle burning on his nightstand. Apparently, Hermione had endured several of the standard curses: Crucio, Imperio, Stupefy. They had performed the regular types of torture including Anti-Disapparation jinxes and Impediment hexes. However, they had used all kinds of off-kilter methods, utilizing the Confundus Charm to confuse her, Deprimo hexes to hold her down, Incarcerous Jinxes to bind her, Silencio to shut her up, and the Obscuro spell to blind her. Her skin was badly burned and gouged by blasting curses and the Defodio Charm respectively. There were still welts covering her stomach from multiple uses of the Stinging Hex and burns plastering her legs from the Flagrante Curse.

The list went on and on and Ron grew weary with each page he finished. They used charms he didn't even know existed – even went to the point of poisoning her with homemade potions. They had done just about everything but _Avada Kedavra_. There was paragraph at the bottom of injury reports simply stating that whoever tormented Hermione intentionally let her remember it. There was no evidence of Memory Charm anywhere in the three weeks she had been kidnapped. She was bound to have massive psychological trauma, possibly including nightmares, hallucinations, and fits. There was no telling who she may wake up to be.

Pausing, Ron tilted his head back against the wall, his neck cracking and straightening. He felt a gruesome sort of hope surge through some little part of him. Maybe Hermione wouldn't remember the reasons she left – maybe this would be a chance to start over. The coldness of the wall overtook him and brought him back to his senses, his mouth twisting into a pressed line. Did he really want to start over with her? If she left the first time, what was to say she wouldn't given a second chance?

Ron cast aside his dwindling hope and continued reading, afraid of the thoughts that were to come.

There were lists of possible treatments after the injury reports stopped. Procedure after procedure drilled complicated potions, charms, and complex spells into Ron's head. He knew each and every one of them by heart, but the sheer mass of the numbers and quantities needed took him by surprise. He wondered if a small woman like Hermione could even handle that much medication. He also wondered if he had enough stock of all the materials kept in his basement.

Instead of choosing one specific treatment scheme, Ron pulled out a notebook and quill and began concocting his own approach. He poured over his own lists of supplies. Conveniently enough, he had a laboratory in his basement: cauldrons, bottles, shelves and shelves of ingredients. There was a library of recipes kept on a wall down there. He had spent the past months supplying various hospitals with remedies for a small profit – enough to live comfortably with what he had.

When the light of morning crept through the curtains in the front hall and under the crack in his door, Ron was propped up on his headboard. His head lolled to the side, his eyes closed. He was surrounded by fifty-plus sheets of crumpled paper. A quill dangled on the edge of the bed. A thin notebook lay open on his lap. There was a slanted scrawl of directions on the paper. He had finally decided on a technique somewhere between two and three that morning.

---

Ron awoke to a piercing scream that afternoon. Falling out of bed and through the door, he heard the shrieks ring throughout the house. Cursing and fumbling up the stairs, Ron feared for Hermione. The screeching became incredibly voluble as he neared the bedroom door. Opening it, Ron darted towards the bed.

It was empty. The covers had been dragged across the floor. The curtains had been flung open to fully expose the room to the light of the moon. The window nearest the bed was half-way open.

Ron whirled around, the rasp shrill filling his ears again. Hermione was crouched in the opposite corner, staring out at him in complete and total horror. Her hands were gripping the walls, clawing and digging at the wallpaper. Her nails were bloody and black. Some of her bandages were falling off, exposing long gouges on her arms and neck. She looked like a monster, like something escaped from a nightmare.

"Shit!" Ron yelled, taken by surprise. It took a couple of seconds for his mind to register that this was the same, tranquil-faced girl that lay in his bed hours before. He stood completely still, pouring over things to do.

Hermione seemed to gain another burst of energy when he swore. Her brassy voice increased into a thunderous commotion. She tore at the short, raggedy strands of her hair, pulling out small sections with her slick fists.

"Hermione!" Ron tried to yell over her, his arms spread out in a 'just hold on' motion. "Hermione, stop it!"

Her hands gripped at her face, breaking apart scabs and letting dark blood run. Her screams were deafening.

Ron's heart began to pound, realizing that no matter what he said, she wouldn't stop. It was clear she didn't recognize him or her surroundings. To her, it must've been another round of persecution. Fear crept through chest when he remembered that his wand was in yesterday's jean's pocket… downstairs in the laundry bin.

"Shit!" he told her again, plainly.

Hermione screamed, curling into the corner.

"Hermione!" Ron yelled at her, "This is _not_ funny!"

She wailed, shutting her eyes tightly.

Ron closed his eyes. He summoned up all the mental strength he could and then burst open his hands. "_Immotus_" he yelled, pushing his arms toward her. He felt part of his soul leaving him through his palms and sailing across the room, slipping delicately into Hermione.

She slumped against the wall. Her hands dragged down the paper and her legs spread out in front of her. Her eyes closed halfway, her mouth still gaping open.

Ron slumped forward as well, feeling his release take its toll. Wandless magic needed constant practice to keep the user up to the challenge. He breathed heavily on his knees. "Shit, Hermione," he whispered, glaring at her.

Hermione's wrist twitched.

Ron quickly scrambled to his feet and grabbed the sleeping draught off the table next to him. He poured it into her mouth and forced her to swallow. He sat next to her and watched as her breathing evening and her lids closed fully to stain her bloody cheeks with their dark fringe. He sat next to her for a while, clutching the empty container in his shaking hands.

Finally, Ron climbed to his feet and gathered her into his lanky arms. Her hair felt coarse against the crook of his elbow, her neck cold and clammy. Her cheek drooped onto his chest, staining his shirt with tiny tattoos of her blood.

"Oh, Hermione," he whispered, struggling. If only he were able to smooth her hair, brush her cheek with the tips of his fingers, kiss her forehead. Instead, he kicked away the covers strewn off the bed and laid her on the mattress. He left her to gather bottles and rags and when he came back, he carefully dressed her wounds. His fingers shook as he tore off bandages and revealed scars that seemed to get deeper and darker. He winced every time he accidentally brushed against her skin. She was so cold, it seemed impossible the blood still flowed in her veins, thoughts in her mind. He wiped away the blood from each finger carefully, cradling her hands in his while his heart pounded.

When Ron finished, he gave her an extra healing draught and carefully laid each sheet on her until the heavy quilt was tucked meticulously beneath her. He stood and went to close the curtains, shutting the window as well. He stood with his back to the glass and felt the cold seep through his shirt and caress his back. It felt strangely soothing.

Did he really want to start over? Did he really want to have lost Hermione already, without at least trying to come to terms with what had happened? And did he really want to begin anew with this stranger – one who didn't even recognize his face or the sound of his voice, one who didn't know his likes and dislikes, one who didn't understand the way he acted was for deep-running reasons?

He watched Hermione sleep until he was too tired to stand.

* * *

**A/N: **Yeah, this chapter was more dark, but Ron is struggling. Wouldn't you?

Anyway, have a great break, everyone... and leave a review!

Love, Katie


	4. Little Bird

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :(

**A/N:** Oh my gosh, guys, thank you SO MUCH for all the reviews!! I've never gotten that kind of attention this early on in a story... so thank you guys all a bunch.

We'll all be taking a trip to The Department of Backstory _SOON_, I PROMISE. You _will_ find out what happened between Ron and Hermione, plus a lot more. Just wait a chapter or so... okay? I promise everything will be revealed in time. :) It's just to build suspense. And as for the 'Where's Harry?' question... he's there! He comes up a lot in the later chapters, so don't you worry. I have my reasons.

* * *

Weeks passed. Hermione's condition didn't improve, but it didn't dwindle. She was secure in her slumber, giving Ron the time to go through the difficult motions of adjustment to her presence. It took a long time for him to become accustomed to fitting his schedule along with hers – dropping his work to spoon-feed her calming potions in the late afternoon, holding off on dinner until her bandages had been changed, washing her sheets before his on laundry day – and it often came with a sense of loathing obligation. Forcing homemade concoctions that took him hours to make down her throat, only to come back and find it vomited up on her pillow frustrated him to the point of tantrums. Before he went to sleep, he would stare at the ceiling and grudge up hurtful feelings at the fact she slept like royalty on his own bed while he was banished to a ruddy coat closet.

He would owl the Order about her so-called "progression" and keep friendly correspondence with Seamus. Ron never had visitors, but wrote quite frequently to his friends and family. He gave no explanation as to why his invitations had stopped, because he was not allowed to tell anyone about Hermione's return - he didn't want to, anyway. He used the time once spent enjoying company in his basement, working over his cauldron, fuming in his repugnance of his guest.

However slowly, though, Ron learned to tolerate. One day he walked into his room to find that Hermione had been gradually wasting away – her collarbones and hips sticking out pointedly beneath her clothes. He hadn't really been paying attention to her weight. Instead of bestowing his usual cruelty and 'forgetting' to feed her a calming draught, he brought her watery broth for dinner and mixed in the potion. Real food would bring back the pounds she needed and restore the faint glow that had blessed her cheeks the months before.

Ron broke himself of seeking his own mean-spirited revenge bit by bit. He no longer overlooked her physical body, standing above her while she cried out in her sleep because of severe muscle cramps. In its place, Ron quieted his trembling hands and rubbed soothing oil into her skin while massaging her frail, chapped arms and legs. He felt awkward and somehow wrong in his actions, but it was clear that this was what she needed.

He tried feeding Hermione a dreaming potion one night when he burned dinner and became unreasonably angry. He felt his vengeance appeased when she twisted beneath the blankets, tying up herself up painfully in a nightmare. She cried out terribly in that raspy, scary voice Ron thought only banshees possessed. Her fists clenched in the bed sheets, her lip snarled tightly. It frightened him – the realization of the complete power he held over her. He went to bed that night engulfed in self-hatred.

Ron's real test came one day in late February, when he returned from the Post and went directly to Hermione's room to set the check he had collected with the rest of her paperwork. He was greeted with a dank and musty smell. He searched the room, his nose crinkled, pushing his freckles into a brown mass.

"Hermione," he said aloud, looking under stacks of books. Ron had taken to talking to her amiably while bustling about. He would converse like he would to a dog – informing her of his day, the weather, how expensive the rent was – and not expecting an answer. "What is that smell? Is it you?" he smiled to himself, sorting through some papers.

Ron grew more agitated when he looked in all the regular spots and did not discover the cause of the smell. He stood in the corner with his hands on his hips. "Now, what is that?" he asked curtly, sweeping the room with his eyes. He spent fifteen minutes before discovering that Hermione, in fact, was the origin of the slight, rank stench.

He stood by the bed, grimacing down at her. He realized that he hadn't changed her clothes since she had arrived – probably a bad sign. Ron leaned down and smelled her neck, finding that it wasn't as sweet as he imagined. Seamus' voice rang in his head, reminding him of 'those murtlap baths once a week' he was supposed to have given her. He had substituted the murtlap with heavy doses of painkillers in her soup and several 'scourgify' spells just so he wouldn't have to touch her.

That was what scared Ron the most – having to lay his hands on Hermione. He hated stretching her body and caressing her small throat to get food down. The memories of when he gladly accepted such a task – sometimes even begging for it – swarmed in his head and clouded his eyes. He stood awhile, unmoving, and reminisced about the days she would playfully pull him into the bathtub with her. She looked so beautiful with her hair plastered against her face, her lashes fringed with droplets of bathwater. He shivered at the way his body fit tightly against hers in the small tub – like he could feel every inch of her skin. He choked and was sent reeling back into reality, a tingling sensation still burning on his arms.

"Hermione," Ron sighed down at her, "I hate you, because you smell horrific. You should be ashamed of yourself." He was playing around, trying to work up the courage to pile her into his arms once again.

Ron turned and walked out of the room, figuring that running the bathwater would take his mind off the task at hand. He made sure the water was hot – scalding, just the way she liked it – and there were fresh towels. Hermione always hated using the slightly-damp ones he left on the floor after his morning shower. He folded the unused fabric until the bathtub was half-full. He was afraid that he might lose his grip or turn away his eyes for a second too long and she would slip beneath the surface of the water, scarce bubbles escaping from her mouth. She was helpless and she trusted him enough to bathe her, God help him.

"Alright," he said, faking cheer, while bustling into the room. Ron stopped at her bedside and picked her up, "here we go," his voice strained with the minimal amount of weight he now carried.

"Watch your head," Ron told her as he exited the room, trying to avoid bumping her against the doorframe. He dropped to his knees on the bathroom rug, setting her limp body on his lap. His fingers shook as he carefully slipped her arms out of her shirt. His body shivered in great waves as he pulled down her pants. He felt sinister taking off her undergarments and exposing her fully, his groin betraying his want to be impartial.

"Hope you don't mind the cold," he whispered in her ear, before lifting her goose-bumped body into the white porcelain tub. She had been so proud of herself when it had been installed at their old flat in London – she marveled over its clawed feet and chattered on about it for weeks. He couldn't keep track of the times he would walk in and she would be immersed in steaming bubbles, a book magicked into floating over the water. Ron couldn't bear to part with it when the move happened and had it put in with an aching heart. Now she was being returned and he felt justified in keeping such an un-sentimental object.

Ron added the murtlap as an afterthought. He washed her tentatively, his cheeks glowing an amber red. He used a washcloth to carefully blot the soap against the newly-formed scars and purple bruises, trying to avoid looking too closely at her nakedness. It was too easy to become engrossed by her alluring, white skin. He found himself tracing the small bird tattooed between her shoulder blades, feeling the swelled blank ink under his finger.

Most of the younger members of the Order had tattooed themselves in some way as a way of bonding themselves together for the next generation. It meant to some that one would never forget what had happened in the last battle – a physical symbol of the struggle they had overcome. It was a common factor that united them even after the war was over, a reminder of cautious hope.

Ron had gone to the parlor with Harry and had sat in the stall next to his friend, the needle on his chest. He had emerged with a tree – its branches outstretched and its roots exposed, but closing to form a tangled circle - a tribute to the unity of his family. Every member had their own branch, some thicker and more vibrant than others. Harry, on the other hand, exited the building with wings. They were folded images covering the whole of his back, impressive to say the least. Hermione had quietly slipped away one afternoon, hesitant to talk about it and refusing to reveal it.

But, alas – there is was, gracing the valley in between where her shoulder blades met – a tiny sparrow, wings outstretched in flight, its beak pointed to the sky.

Ron drew his finger away slowly, lost in the memory of the first time he saw it, the first time he kissed it. An unbearable feeling of sadness took over as he drained the tub, forcing him to step outside the bathroom and collect himself in the hallway. He scrubbed a harsh hand over his face and through his hair. He felt scrambled and lost.

At last, he returned to Hermione's side and lifted her out of the tub wrapped in a towel. He carefully navigated her into bed and went down to the basement to wash her clothes. He sat on the dryer, calmed by its constant humming sound and slight shake, able to finally gather himself fully. The ordeal was over and Hermione was much the better for it, but Ron couldn't shake the feeling of loss. He had it all two years ago – he had _Hermione_ – and though she had finally returned, it was like a stranger sleeping in his bed.

Ron pressed her warm clothes to his face, only to find that the smell they carried was one of his own. He so badly wanted to inhale the sweet scent of vanilla that seemed to radiate from her years ago, the aroma abundant on sheets and pillows throughout their home. As he folded the garments, his limbs felt heavy and numb. All he wanted to do was sleep.

He found early on that simply sleeping could take away all the pain and hurt inflicted on him – all he needed was a scotch and someplace to rest and the world would melt away, his dreams would caress him into fantasy. He couldn't remember months after the initial shock of Hermione's betrayal, because they had vanished while he was stuffed into a dark corner of London, a pillow overtop his ear and booze at his feet.

It had been Harry to pull him out of it, appearing at his front door six months after Hermione left. He had taken one look at Ron and demanded that firstly, he should shower and then he move and start over. Harry confided that he hadn't heard anything from her either, so Ron was forced by his loyalty and trust to drag himself out of hibernation and try to begin again. It was rocky and painful – he stayed with friends after he sold the apartment and spent most nights drunk – and finally, he had found a dingy flat outside a suburb of Lawrence. He didn't like going out, he didn't like talking to new people, he didn't like talking to the people he knew, and he didn't like working a steady job. Ron yearned for the day the Order would call on him again, taking in simple missions for half their allotted payments.

Now they had and look where he was.

Ron returned to Hermione's bedroom and dressed her, pulling the covers up to her chin. A snowstorm had slammed the town that day, the cold pressing through the windows and cracks in doors, threatening to seep into a person's skin. Ron went to blow out the candle on her bedside, but stopped before his breath could reach the flame – the room seemed warm with the light – and he went to leave the room.

Ron paused, turned back, and kissed her forehead softly. He smelled his shampoo in the remnants of her curls and it calmed him a bit. If she didn't have a scent of her own, he was glad at least she had his.

"Goodnight," he whispered.

* * *

**A/N: **I really wish I could draw the tattoo designs I have picked out for each character... they're all so cool. Anyway, have a great weekend everyone! 

And please, leave me a review!!

Love, Katie


	5. Paperwork

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP :(

**A/N: **Hey guys, I'm really sorry about last Friday... I know I should've updated then, but I was gone all weekend on a showchoir trip. :( Sorry again. But I really did appreciate the reviews SO MUCH... they're great to read!

Anyway, here's the next chapter... enjoy! This is a very, very important one.

* * *

Ron bought a dog.

As February slipped into March, and then into early April, Ron became lonely. Hermione slept on and the finality of her stay ultimately impressed itself upon him. She simply became another plant to water, another mouth to feed, another load of laundry – not a talkative counterpart to surprise him with breakfast and a good morning kiss, like his dreams so badly wished. He would spend his days in her room, the curtains drawn open, watching the activity in the complex's backyard. He felt the pangs of seclusion and - utilizing his brash decisiveness - went out and purchased a remedy in the form of Gus.

Gus was a six-year-old German Shepherd laying complacently in the back of the animal shop Ron had visited. Gus was housetrained, obedient, and rarely barked – he had spent his teenage years training to be watchdog for a Muggle bank, but had injured his forearm a year ago – making him the perfect house dog. Ron took pity on the great thing, rubbing his soft ears and nuzzling his snout, and felt a strange sort of relief when he led Gus through his flat's door.

Ron spent the whole week excited, parading about the apartment with Gus in tow, introducing the haggard dog to everything the home had to offer. He informed the dog of the sofas he could sleep on (which was all of them), his food bowls, the bathroom mirror, his paperwork, the cauldrons, and the like. He even introduced Hermione to him, allowing Gus to tentatively sniff her hands and hair, hastily removing the dog suddenly, lest he get attached.

Gus took to the home and master quite well, barking his opinions of Ron's choice of clothing when he stepped out of the closet and Ron's cooking when fed. He lay on an armchair in the sitting room for most of the day, watching the birds flitter on the tree branches and power lines outside the window. He seemed satisfied with the indoors, realizing that Ron would not take him for walks and that his time in the backyard was very limited. He wandered the halls contentedly for hours. Sometimes, he would sit outside Hermione's room, whining and scratching the door, wanting to be let in to see her.

It took Ron some time to allow himself to share _his_ dog with her, but eventually Ron left her bedroom door open. Gus would sleep at the end of her bed during the night; his lithe bulk resting on her feet. Ron found himself spending more time in the company of Hermione, blaming the cause on the dog, but still slightly relishing the fact he had a chance to watch her surreptitiously.

"Gus," Ron declared quietly one day, sitting in an armchair by the windowsill, "today has been a good day, right?" He nuzzled the dog's forehead with his wide, flat palm.

The dog perked his ears in recognition of his name, his eyes droopy and sad.

"Yeah it has," Ron answered for him. "Isn't that right, Hermione?"

Hermione lay still.

"Thought so," he mused, a slight smile playing across his lips. He knew this play was absurd – he lived with a dog and coma patient – and began to chuckle softly.

Gus lay his head back down on the rug, grunting complacently.

"Well, I'm off," Ron told them both, hoisting himself to his feet. "Just need to run to the loo and I'll be right back to tuck you two in."

He exited the room still snickering at the tragic comedy his life had become. When he returned, Ron saw that Gus had already taken his spot at the end of Hermione's quilt – directly over her feet – and took to feeding the woman her potions. When he blew out the candle and went to leave again, Gus growled through the dark. The noise surprised Ron, the tone of it low and out of place.

Ron pivoted in his place, his hand gripping the door. "What is it?" he asked sharply.

Gus barked his reply and Ron hesitantly found the dog in the night, rubbing his ears to calm the animal. Gus wasn't acting strangely, but his breathing was muffled. Ron put his hand to his mouth and felt something thin and weathered. Gus retracted his grip on whatever it was he had and Ron drew it to him, realizing it was a piece of parchment.

"Where'd you get this?" Ron voiced his initial thought. Gus failed to reply. "Well, thanks anyway," he whispered, listening to the dog calm. Gus' breathing tapered and soon matched the speed of Hermione's. Ron slipped from the room and went downstairs, curiosity playing with his head.

It couldn't be a letter from his family or Harry – it was too late at night for such a small letter – and it probably wasn't a housekeeping memo from Seamus. He sat himself in front of the fire in his study, tearing open the paper with his fingers easily. Withdrawing the letter, Ron saw that the letterhead came from the Order and immediately, his pulse quickened.

_Weasley, _the letter began –

_I've got some news for you – don't know if you'll like it or not. Someone special from St. Mungos is going to stop by and complete a check-up for Hermione tomorrow. They haven't gotten your paperwork in quite a while and frankly, we're all getting kind of anxious to hear about her. Anyway, figured I'd give you a break from playing 'doctor.' They'll be at your flat around eleven. Expect a Muggle mailman. Enjoy the afternoon off. _

_-Seamus_

Ron read the parchment twice, his eyebrows furrowing. He drew in a great breath, trying to be calm, and leaned back in his chair. He stared into the fire while annoyance built in his chest. He knew that Seamus didn't mean any harm, but _damn_ that letter stung.

The parchment crumpled in his fist as Ron lost himself in his thoughts. He had always harbored a small hope of becoming a 'doctor,' even under the schooling of Snape. He had been fascinated by potions and found that he excelled in them, keeping it mum for fear of teasing. Admittedly, he wasn't the brightest student. But he found his chance in the Order - everyone had to learn complex healing strategies in times of combat and remission. Ron always held his head high, confident and strong. Even Hermione had been impressed.

But Harry had chosen early on to become an Auror – mostly for vengeance, Ron thought. Harry was an angry young man and went out into the world under the false pretense that he would help reshape the war-stricken wizarding world. Instead, he found himself killing Voldemort's followers more than ever and could not deny the fact that it soothed him in some horrid way. And what Harry did, Ron had already agreed to do. It was with a heavy heart that Ron put aside his wants and surrendered to the calling of his best friend.

He ached every single day to play 'doctor' to the villages and towns they passed through. He cringed under cold eyes, wondering why men in such good power would not stop to help. He swore he saw the sick and dying in the windows of the weather-beaten buildings they slipped by, crying out for him. It was then he began building a small amount of resentment not only for Harry, but for the small platoon he traveled with.

Ron guessed that's why he gave up the job only eight months later. He couldn't take the snipe missions, the gruesome deaths, the hatred between the two groups. He abhorred watching the gleam in Harry's eyes before an ambush. It was senseless and tragic. What was even worse, though, was that Ron couldn't bring himself before the eyes of patients at St. Mungos. He couldn't take the hope they carried, knowing that many of them wouldn't make it. He had seen death too many times and the sense of sorrow engulfed him.

Then Hermione had found him. His life changed in so many ways. But that was a different story, something he wouldn't allow himself to dwell on at the present moment. All that mattered was that he had emerged better, more skilled, and able to help those who needed it in his own way – instead of killing, he collected information. Hermione had him enlist in another part of the Order. A sector she belonged to. That was half the reason he agreed – trying to show his gratitude for her. He became a spy, a shadow, a no one. The job fit him well, but he still felt as if something was missing.

Ron was a changed person. When Hermione left, he waited for months for a mission. Perhaps he would be able to find her again. When he was assigned one, he found they were simple and not exactly essential to the Heads' knowledge. Instead, he turned to his real passion and began brewing potions for Mungos. If he couldn't face the patients, the least he could do was supply them with a means of getting better. If he couldn't find Hermione, then life would have to go on.

He would show Hermione. He would _show_ her that he was his own person – not just a follower. He had spent years in Harry's footsteps and, to a much lesser degree, hers. Hermione didn't let him forget that fact – that everyone around him had achieved what they wanted to be. He was the only one left wondering what was happening, watching for signs to guide him.

Not anymore.

Ron stared into the fire a while, his annoyance with Seamus building quietly in his heart. When the clock struck ten down the hall, he stood and tossed the letter into the hearth. Then he went upstairs, gathered the rest of the paperwork, and threw that in as well. He retired to bed with a complacent smile.

---

Ron awoke early the next morning, albeit drudgingly. He showered for the first time in a week but didn't bother shaving. He liked the peach fuzz growing on his face and head – he spent a few minutes gazing in the mirror imaging what he would look like with hair again. Maybe he would be more presentable – he needed to be now that Important People were coming to visit. He didn't want to risk losing Hermione again just because of his preferred squalor.

Gus followed him about the apartment for a while – probably just waiting for his food dish to be filled – and watched raptly as Ron stuffed clutter into closets and paper into cabinets. He sat in the doorframe as his master picked up the empty bottles of medicine strewn on Hermione's bedroom floor and crammed them into the closet he had never bothered to fill with her clothes.

Exactly at eleven, Ron heard footsteps on the porch outside the front door. He knew mailmen never rang the doorbell, so he opened the door instead. A tall, burly man dressed in blue nodded at him, depositing a few letters in the box next to the bell with a thick hand. Ron asked him in for a cup of coffee and the mailman accepted silently. Ron left the door open as he turned back into the main hallway.

When he turned his back, the husky man was gone. In his place stood a familiar, petite woman surveying the flat with raised eyebrows.

Ron gaped at her with an open mouth, uttering a few incomprehensible sounds.

"Look at this place," the woman remarked with a shimmering laugh, her neck craning gracefully to glance past him up the newly-dusted stairs. "It's so… tiny." Her nose wrinkled as she placed a hand on her curvy hip. "And… _quaint_? Is that the word I'm looking for?"

"Gin?" Ron stuttered, his cheeks reddening.

At that exact moment, there was a rustling sound from upstairs – something like thousands of dollars worth of pennies being dropped on hardwood – and a few robust barks. Gus tumbled down the stairs clumsily, not used to the clean walking space. He lunged forward, past Ron, and immediately began snuffing forcefully around Ginny Weasley's knees.

Ginny, obviously very surprised by Ron's new housemate, voiced her reaction in a loud, "Oh my God! What _is_ this?" She backed up, her face pointed with triteness and a hint of fear. "What is that!" she repeated, her voice shrill.

Ron pulled the dog back by the scruff of its neck, his face burning. Gus calmed under his master's touch, but still huffed heavily in Ginny's direction. "Ginny," Ron began to stutter again, not able to comprehend his sister was the Muggle mailman, his sister was a Healer, his sister was standing in his front hallway critiquing his décor.

Ginny laughed again, breathing a sigh of relief. "You got a dog!" she exclaimed jovially as she smoothed her red twist of hair down the back of her neck. "I can't believe you… got a dog."

Ron smiled sheepishly, feeling clumsy and awkward in front of his family. It had been such a long time since he had been in contact with someone who would talk back, touch his hand lightly in conversation, wrap him fully in an embrace. He had no idea how to approach her – to really get her that coffee or to simply wrap his arms around her.

"Okay," Ginny slid her weight to one leg, her hip jutting out, "are you going to say anything at all, Hermit Brother?"

"His… his name is Gus," Ron stammered, loosening his hold on the dog. "He's really friendly, if you want to pet him."

"Gus," Ginny rolled the name over her tongue, seemingly liking the sound of it. She bent down, "Come here, dog," she cooed, holding her hands out as she would to a baby. Gus obliged happily, practically jumping on her. She rubbed the dog's ears vigorously and watched Ron at the same time.

"He's nice," she said plainly.

"Thanks," Ron answered, feeling naked without something for his hands to do. He felt relief as his back met the wall – something to keep him from sinking, melting, disappearing.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Ginny stood erect with Gus sitting contentedly next to her legs. "So, how've you been?" her slim shoulders shrugged quickly, her smile was charming – Ginny was a beautiful young woman.

"Fine," Ron answered, wide-eyed. When had this transformation happened? The last time he had seen Ginny she had been slogging her way through the Order's training program and an internship simultaneously. Her hair had been frizzy and uncut, her face bare and pale, her grin usually a grimace. "Fine."

Ginny's head bobbed, her hair catching the sunlight that streamed through the gauzy curtains covering the windows. "That's good, Ron… that's really, really good."

"And you?" his throat closed around the words. It was like swallowing whole ice cubes.

"Oh, you know," Ginny began with a simple wave of her hand; "got my own place, buy my own groceries…" her voice melded together, a hum of simple notes and quick inflections. He heard only a buzz in his ears.

Ron crossed the little distance between them and wrapped his skinny, freckled arms around his sister. He pulled her to him lightly, smelling the bright fragrance emanating from her skin. Her regulation St. Mungos robes were soft on his skin, reassuring him in his actions. He felt warm when Ginny threw her arms around his neck.

"We all miss you, Hermit Brother," she laughed quietly into his long neck. "Mum worries about you quite a bit – your letters help a lot. I'm just glad I'm the one who gets to see you."

Ron closed his eyes, trying to remember the sound of Ginny's voice. He knew now how important that was – memories were vital to him.

Eventually, Ginny pulled away and smoothed her hair again, her eyes downcast. Ron watched her face flicker between shining delight and faltering doubt – he could tell Ginny was slightly uncomfortable. He backed up a few steps, wiping his dry hands on his jeans and glancing over his shoulder.

"How's Hermione been?" her voice rang through the still air, only disturbing the invisible dust between them. "She okay?"

Ron shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling something small inside of him sink. Of course Ginny wasn't here for just a visit – that was against the rules – how had he allowed himself to forget? Again, Hermione had taken precedence in his life. Ron's visitors weren't really his, they were hers and he was just there to offer snacks and a comfortable place to sit and chat.

"She's fine," he answered, trying to make his voice sound like normal – he didn't want Ginny to hear his disappointment this early on in their reunion. "She's upstairs." Even to his hears, the words sounded hard and sad. He turned, shrugging, and began to take the stairs.

Ginny watched, unmoving for a second, her face blank. Her brother's feet disappeared into the upstairs hallway and there was a creak of a door. She realized she had to reassess her brother – his face no longer held that radiating spark that so accompanied his features years ago. His shoulders weren't held pompously as if trying to impress a great unknown. She missed his laugh, the deep rumble of his arguments, and the grand eloquence of his ego-bearing confidence.

She felt as if she was forced into sympathy for Ron. It wasn't everyday that there was a love like his – Hermione had been his whole world – and it wasn't everyday a love like that was so tragically ruined. Hermione had come back, yes, but with no explanation to soothe him. Pity filled her.

Ginny sighed, patted Gus again, and followed her brother to Hermione's room.

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**A/N: **I hope you liked it! Please leave a review... suggestions are always welcome. :)

And have a great weekend!!!

Love, Katie


	6. Letter from Gus

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP :(

**A/N: **Here's the next chapter! Hope you enjoy it - things are starting to pick up. :)

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"Well, I guess I'll just leave you to it, right?" Ron rubbed the back of his head, the stubble soft against his palm. He stood in the doorway; his back pressed painfully into the trimmed wood, and sighed.

Ginny looked up from her station on the floor. She had dumped her pockets onto the rug the moment she had walked into the room, revealing numerous bottles and lists and a small clipboard. Her wand had been artfully tucked into her long hair to hold it away from her face. She was sitting cross-legged sorting through her things.

She knit her brows for a moment and then shook her head. "No, you don't need to go. In fact," she continued with a tilt of her head, "it would really help if you would walk me through your process… I mean, from what I see here," she gestured to the lists she had gathered from what was left of Hermione's paperwork, "you haven't been following the recommended procedure."

Ron shrugged, unsure of whether he should act ashamed or cocky. "It wasn't right."

Ginny answered with another quick shrug, "Fine by me." She hoisted herself to her feet and began to peel back Hermione's bed sheets. "Wow," she remarked, running her fingers lightly over Hermione's arms and face, "you really cleaned her up." Ginny met his eyes with a sort of genuine satisfaction. "I'm impressed! I mean, coming from _you_, after all."

Ron blushed and straightened a little. He, accompanied by Gus, walked to the end of the bed. His fingers curled over the wood of the end board so hard his fingernails turned white. It helped to calm him.

Ginny smoothed Hermione's hair and conjured a basin with water. She began to carefully wash the pale woman's forehead.

"Well," Ron's voice shook, "I decided on a daily routine that would minimize the amount of care I would have to serve." His eyes darted up to see if Ginny would be okay with that. Her face remained tranquil, her movements flowing. He cleared his throat and began again, this time with a bit more confidence. "Two sleeping draughts, a calming draught every other day counterbalanced by a healing potion, broth for dinner, a bath once or twice a month, dreamless sleep concoctions, I grew back her fingernails, her hair has been filling in, bandages redressed every single day, things like that."

Ron crossed the room, calmed by the sound of splashing water, and fingered through the files splayed across the bureau. He found his crumpled, stained parchment and looked over it. "I have it all recorded here – I even have a journal if you'd like to look over it."

Ginny nodded patiently, wringing out the cloth and blotting it against Hermione's slim arms. She tried not to notice the blue veins running in rivers beneath her skin, but it made her insides crawl. "You said broth?" she turned her head to look over her shoulder at him.

Ron's head bobbed in affirmation.

"So you've been feeding her?" Ginny's voice sounded incredulous. "You actually got her to take solid food?"

"No," Ron answered immediately, dispelling Ginny's wonder. "Just soups – nothing solid. She can't take them unconscious. I was afraid she would choke. Strictly liquids."

Ginny finished bathing Hermione and vanished the basin. She pulled the wand from her hair and let it cascade down her back, like licks of flames. She didn't speak much after that, simply directed her attention fully at her patient like any Healer would. Ron sat on the windowsill and watched her back for a while, his mind wandering to the complex's backyard. The small square of green was empty and illuminated by the noontime sun, making the usually dingy metal bars of the playground sparkle with absent magic.

To Ron, it felt like hope – a tiny little glimpse of it somewhere on the horizon – given the opportunity. Usually he would have squinted, turned from the window; annoyed. Instead, he was filled with a sudden, very slight exhilaration that left him the moment it hit. It made him acutely aware of all the latent energy that had been building inside him for so long. He felt like yelling, screaming until he was hoarse.

The moment passed all too quickly, leaving Ron jittery and unnerved. He roughly shoved open the window beside him and allowed the breeze to slither into the room. He smelled the wet aroma of the city in April – the abundant mud, the overflowing gutters, the leaves plastered against the bark of growing trees. Resting on his elbows, Ron thought perhaps today was just a bit better than the rest.

Ginny smiled, feeling the wind creep across her arms. She didn't mind the goose bumps. She glanced at her brother and saw him slouched, tense, and in deep thought. He was slowly easing into a person resembling the Ron she remembered.

She resumed examining her patient. It was slightly unnerving thinking of Hermione – one of her friends, part of her family – as nothing more than a body. She swiftly checked vitals, skin tone, bones, and things like that. A quill scribbled quickly across the clipboard hovering near her right elbow. Hermione's reflexes were good – her pupils dilated slightly when exposed to sunlight, her knees and elbows were flexible to a point, her muscles were not tight, but supple and lean. Ginny examined her brain activity and to her surprise found it extremely active for someone who had been in a coma for several months. Hermione responded slightly to a voice, touch, temperature and all of this was duly noted.

A half-hour later, Ginny brushed off her hands and turned fully to face Ron, smiling. "She's in excellent condition, Hermit Brother," she announced, thoroughly impressed. "Mungos is going to give you a great recommendation whenever you decide to step out of this place."

Ron shook his head, secretly pleased and afraid. "No," he said, clearing his throat. It felt strange to talk – he went for weeks without speaking a word to anyone, minus the mild praises he award Gus for eating the whole can of food or coming when called – and he could tell his voice was raspy and jilted. "I'm fine where I am."

Ginny slid her weight to her left hip, jutting it out again. "Whatever," she tossed her hair over her shoulder, reminding Ron that she was still only twenty and had not fully grown up yet. "So…" her voice trailed off as she looked about the room, unable to think of what to say next.

"D'you want something to drink… to eat, maybe?" Ron asked, standing up. "I've got some chocolate biscuits Mum sent awhile back."

Ginny - dead-set on making her visit as pleasant as possible – immediately replied, "Sure!" and swiftly bounded from the room, beckoning Ron to follow.

---

They sat in the kitchen an hour later, both of them cross-legged on the counter on opposite sides of the sink. Ron wasn't much of a cook so Ginny charged herself with making them a small lunch, leaving Ron to the mundane task of boiling hot water for the tea. He didn't mind – it was nice to have someone else dote on him. Ginny had skirted about the kitchen grabbing food out of the fridge and poking about the shelves for pots and dishes, chattering lightly about things she thought Ron would appreciate – Harry's favorite Quidditch teams, her new apartment, Minister Shacklebolt's new troll policies, Hagrid's visit to the Burrow last November. Ron stirred the tea. Ginny turned on the Muggle radio and began to hum in between her sentences, her hair whirling about her shoulders as she danced in preparations.

"This is good," Ron grumbled through the toasted beef sandwich Ginny had meticulously finished. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling grease moisten his rough skin. "You have a knack."

"Just like Mum," Ginny chirped happily. She had finished, deciding only to eat half of hers so she could sneak the rest into Ron's fridge for later. "So," she leaned forward, almost pitching herself into the silver sink, "what's been new with you?"

"Nothing," was the easy, truthful answer.

Ginny shrugged it off.

"How's Harry?"

It was a subject he hesitated to delve into, but Ron had absolutely nothing to offer up to Ginny that would be of interest to her. He knew that Harry and Ginny dated off-and-on, most of the time seriously. He also knew the less-definite months were the hardest on Ginny – she already wanted to settle down and perhaps get married or some girl bullshit like that. She knew that Harry wouldn't be up for three kids and a white picket fence for years – maybe not ever – but foolishly kept the hope someday he would bring her a ring. Ron could see it shining in her eyes.

"He was sent on a Snipe about a week ago," Ginny tried to make her voice sound nonchalant, but it was hard. Thoughts of Harry plagued her often, wondering when he'd be home and if he'd be alright. "The Order won't tell me anything, because I'm not immediate family."

The irony of the words hung over them – who exactly was qualified to be Harry Potter's immediate family, if not the Weasleys? Ron chuckled and soon, Ginny added her own soft laughter.

"I'm sorry," Ron apologized, taking another bite and finishing the whole thing. "It must be hard."

Again, Ginny shrugged it off. That was what she always did – just let it slide off her back. She imagined she left an invisible trail of doubts and worry behind her all the time, scattering them at home and work and everywhere else she went, cluttering up her past. "Yeah, I guess – he's gone a lot. He writes a lot, but some of his letters get lost and some have whole paragraphs blocked out."

"You know the Order monitors that kind of stuff – especially when he's on a mission. He's Harry Potter, after all. I'm sure he tries," Ron assured her. While Harry wasn't the most dependable guy, he still had redeeming qualities. He had made sure the Weasleys had a sum of money after graduation, just in case he didn't make it out of the Auror squadron alive. Harry still sent Christmas presents to the Burrow. He loved Ginny. Ron knew Harry would write if he could – not often – but Ginny would get a short, scratchy letter three or four times a month.

Ron regretted his words when he saw the glistening sheen over Ginny's eyes – all of her uncertainties and disbelief welling into tears. He reached his hand out and patted her knee awkwardly, but still conveying his brotherly message. "He'll be home soon."

A little white lie never hurt anyone.

"He said that he'll be home for sure by the end of May," she smiled, but looked miserable. She swiped at her eyes, drawing in a breath. "Sorry!" she exclaimed in a gush. "Ugh, I hate being a baby."

"It's alright," Ron assured her, feeling a sense of himself that had lain dormant in his heart for quite a while. He was a brother and this was what brothers did – they listened and consoled and made things right for their baby sisters. Not that he could force Harry to settle down with his sister, but he would certainly try for family's sake.

"It'll be alright."

Ginny dusted her hands again and slipped off the counter, gathering the empty plates and running the water in the sink. She concentrated on her work and eventually the tears disappeared – a little trick she taught herself when Harry went to boot camp. She felt Ron's eyes on her face and turned her gaze to the suds. No one said a word.

It was around four o'clock when Ginny finally glanced at the clock above the living room fireplace and very adamantly declared she must leave. Ron obliged quietly, saddened that his guest was quitting him already.

Ginny wrapped her arms around Ron's slim torso and breathed in his old rum scent. Ron tried to commit to memory the soft way her hair moved against the top of his chin.

"Goodbye, Hermit Brother," Ginny told him, her voice slightly muffled by his t-shirt. She patted his back and drew away slowly from the embrace. Ron's face looked taught and pale, but he was attempting a smile. It was a bit comical, the way his mouth hooked back and his tongue poked out from between his straight teeth. "I'll come again soon – I'm sure Mungos will want more live updates now that Hermione's condition has improved so much." She punched his shoulder. "All thanks to you, _Doctor_ Brother."

Ron's smile widened and became more natural, a hint of blush gracing his cheeks. His mouth wanted to say _It was nothing, _but his brain knew better. Instead, he kissed her freckled forehead and handed Ginny her bag. "Give Mum my love."

"Of course," Ginny assured him, grinning. She squeezed him one last time and took a handful of Floo power from the vase on the mantel. Before stepping into the raging green flames, Ginny tossed a, "Give my love to Gus!" over her shoulder.

Then, she vanished.

Ron slumped onto the couch, his smile still plastered on his face. He swiped a hand that smelled deliciously of beef over his face. Gus joined him shortly after and Ron relayed Ginny's message, scratching his ears. He closed his eyes and pictured his sister laughing. His chest swelled with delight.

---

That night, Ron went upstairs to tuck Hermione in. Her skin was white and beautiful and he brushed his fingertips over her relaxed hands, sure she would not wake. He felt an ease around her body that he had not felt since she had been conscious. Perhaps it was Ginny's bright demeanor that seemed to lighten the mood of the entire flat.

He took a seat in the chair a few feet from the bed and watched her chest move slightly and rhythmically. It must've been nice to sleep while problems just floated by like unseen dreams. To have someone look after you every day and night – to have a protector and guardian. It would be like being a child again, removed from the adult world of troubles. Hermione always did look more peaceful in slumber than in reality.

"Sometimes I miss you," Ron admitted, "but I can't let you back into my life, not now." The words seemed heavy in the air, but he felt lighter with each word that passed from his lips. "I feel like I might have a second chance at whatever it is I'm supposed to do," his breath was wispy, his voice tainted with small hope. "I don't think I can do that with you around."

Hermione's breath was even and slow.

"I'm not saying I'm giving you up – I have no clue as to why." Ron smiled, "Maybe it's just the Stockholm Syndrome setting in. But once you wake up, you have to leave."

Hermione did not reply.

"Sound good?" Ron asked, his eyebrows raised.

Hermione's lips remained un-parted.

"Good." Ron stood up from his chair and stretched his muscles so grandly his fingertips touched the ceiling. He smoothed Hermione's hair and shut off the light, treading quietly down the stairs.

Ron found Gus in the living room, curled up into a ball on the sofa. Figuring he'd douse the fire and head to bed, Ron patted the dog quickly before reaching for the bucket next to the couch. His hand caught on something sharp and it stung painfully.

"Where do you keep _getting_ these things?" Ron asked incredulously, retracting a short scrap of parchment from Gus' jaws. He shook off the droplets of spit and opened the letter.

Immediately, he felt the unmistakable urge to vomit.

* * *

**A/N: **Didja like it?! Sorry about the cliffhanger... maybe. :) Have a a great weekend!

Plus, leave a review!!

Love, Katie


	7. Thrash

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own HP:)

**A/N: **Hey guys! Another Friday, another chapter. I actually just wrote this last night, so forgive me please if you find something wrong with punctuation. Anyway, I feel like this story is really going to start picking up from here, like a mini-catalyst, you know? I really hope you enjoy reading and THANK YOU SO MUCH for the reviews - I love reading them!!_

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_

_Weasley,_

_Heather McDowell just reviewed Gin's report on your patient. She specializes in things like Hermione's condition. Anyway, she sends her regards and congratulations. We're all impressed by the way you've obviously handled the situation. McDowell wants you to drop the sleeping draughts – says from where Granger stands now, the best move would be to start waking her up a few times a day. She needs the "physical stimuli." Also, I'm guessing the psychological stuff needs to be dealt with some time or other. I'll send over her report tomorrow._

_I understand if you don't want to progress with a new treatment right away. However, McDowell wants it to happen within the next week… and a report on her desk with your signature on the bottom by Friday. You might want to consider the paperwork – she can be a mighty wench about it. _

_Sorry this is so short, but you understand - security and all that._

_Best Wishes,_

_Seamus_

---

Ron awoke the next afternoon in a haze, tinges of pain on the edges of his consciousness. He tried to collect himself, feeling the hard floor beneath him with numb fingers and seeing with eyes that were half-closed and severely blurred, but found he could not. He had no idea where he was or why he was there – nothing was familiar and it scared him.

He tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse and it burned to release the guttural moan that replaced it. Grasping for anything to hold onto and finding nothing but the stale around surrounding him, Ron fell backwards and his head brutally struck the floor again. Tears leaked out from his eyes, stinging all the way down his cheeks. The last thought that passed through his mind before the blackout set it was the he was utterly helpless.

---

Gus found Ron asleep behind the sofa. He was sprawled the way a man who had been shot would be – arms and legs stretched out to their limits while his head lolled to the side, his tears mixing with his drool. Luckily it was the dog who discovered Ron's body and not someone of the human persuasion, for they would find him entirely disgusting. Luckily Ron habituated his own living room and not the alley behind a bar, for the owner would find him just another drunk and call the local police to escort him away.

Gus whined and pawed at his master, simply trying to communicate his need for food and water. He licked Ron's face and eventually grew tired of being ignored. He sauntered away to resume watching the birds. He waited patiently for another hour before he heard groaning coming from the next room.

Ron sat up fully, his eyes blinking rapidly. He wiped off his face with the back of his throbbing hand. Every ounce of him seemed to be filled with dull hurt and dread. It took him a few minutes, but he soon recalled what had proceeded after he had opened that damned letter from Seamus.

As he tottered to his feet, gripping the back of the sofa for support, Ron remembered he had thrown the letter in the fireplace. He spotted the ash from where he stood and quickly turned away. It took some time, but he found his way to the kitchen. Opening cupboard doors in search of a soothing draught for his head, Ron recalled that he had flown up the stairs and made sure that he had served Hermione her sleeping potion for the night. He then drank the rest of her supply, gone downstairs, and downed as much ale as he could before the concoctions took their toll.

With slow fingers, Ron popped the top off of his stash of the draughts – conveniently placed next to his booze cabinet – and felt relief flow through him. His headache subsided and the aches in his knees disappeared. He eased himself into a chair and cradled his head in his hands.

How could this be happening? It was all too soon – he expected Hermione to stay asleep… forever. Yes, he had tried to make his peace with her, but to actually have her respond? He imagined only rejection.

Anger replaced the twinge of hurt in his guts. Once Hermione awoke it would be just like old times. Her voice would be curt and scathing, asking him why the fuck she was with him again. She didn't need him before, she would probably be appalled at the fact he was trying to break into her life once more. Her yelling would fill the room and make it impossible for him to tell her this wasn't the way he wanted it, either. Her voice would pervade all the little crevices in his mind he tried to keep away from her. It would be a disaster.

For a brief moment, Ron considered smothering Hermione with his own pillow.

He threw up. His stomach heaved with anguish and his thoughts were replaced and never brought to surface again. Ron stayed bent over in his chair, trying not to inhale the fumes of his own vomit, and groaned.

Gus trotted into the room and stopped before Ron, his eyes darting and searching. Ron patted his soft head and magicked the vile away. He went through the perfunctory tasks of feeding the dog and cleaning the dishes, managing to stomach some cornmeal with another soothing draught, and took to the stairs like a prisoner facing the noose.

Hermione's room was warmed by the sunset streaming through the curtains and it comforted him slightly. Everything was bathed in reds and yellows and slowly sharpening shadows, shading her face from sight. Calling for Gus on the basis of support, Ron took the seat next to Hermione's bed. He kicked the empty bottles away, their scattering disrupting the stale quiet that engulfed him.

"Damnit," Ron muttered to himself. He didn't have any more sleeping potions to feed Hermione. He would just have to hope her clock still retained the memory of day and night; that she might still sleep through the darkness.

Still on the precautionary side, Ron drew up a cot and pillow across the room. Gus lay beside him on the floor as he settled in for the night. They both remained awake to watch the colors drain from the room, Ron's eyes glittering through the moonlight and betraying his fear of the inevitable. For hours he sat upright, rigidity freezing his spine, watching her.

Hermione began making noises in the early morning, before the moon even had the chance to fall from grace. She barely moved, but the rustling was enough to disturb Ron from his precarious slumber. He darted from bed and tripped over his sheets, landing hard on the rug. Fear tightened its grip on him. Gus woke and climbed to his feet dizzily. The duo made their way guardedly over to where Hermione lay moaning.

Her mouth was a tiny, perfect oval. The diminutive little croaks coming out of it kept Ron in absolute rapture – he could do nothing but stare unblinkingly. Suddenly, Hermione's head jerked to the side, a curl landing on her forehead. Her hair had finally grown long enough to curl again and they were beautiful. He grew distracted by the way it was highlighted by errant moonbeams, his hand betraying his heart and reaching out to touch her smooth skin.

"No," a slight voice coughed.

Snapping out of his reverie, Ron stumbled backwards. He knew that voice. No matter how long it had been and no matter what the condition, Ron would _always_ know that voice.

"No," she repeated, her head thrashing to the other side. Her arm shot out, grasping at nothing but air. "No!" she pleaded to her dream in a raspy voice. "No!"

"Hermione…" her name caught in his throat. He stopped, unable to breath, and watched her move.

Hermione writhed and twisted until her feet got wrapped up in her sheets. "No!" she gasped in terror. Her eyes shut tightly and a sheen of sweat broke out against her forehead. "No, _please_." Her back arched quickly and her neck followed until she bent herself to face the ceiling. "Don't!" she cried, her voice still a whisper but the terror inside it growing. "Please, don't! _No_!"

"Hermione, stop," Ron asked her absently in a pleading voice of his own. "You've got to."

She did not listen and continued to silently scream, wriggling tirelessly in her own blankets. Her muscles tensed and bulged, the veins in her neck and forehead popping out a bright blue. She looked like the nightmare she had been before – a simple monster. Even her fingers curled and dug into the sheets like miniature claws, ripping them thoroughly.

"Hermione!" Ron shouted, alarming Gus. "Stop it this instant!" He grabbed her arm and then quickly drew away his grasp, realizing her skin was hot to the touch. To a doctor's mind, something was wrong. Ron panicked, unsure of what to do.

Hermione bared her teeth, her breath hissing in and out from between them. "_Stop_," she seethed. Tears dripped down the side of her face.

Ron grabbed her arm again, pressing it forcefully against the mattress. Her hand gradually relaxed and lay complacently in his grip. The rest of her body, however, still raged against her nightmare. She was still very hot so Ron took hold on the bed sheets and tore them off of her and the mattress. He threw them in a pile next to Gus, who was upset and pacing. Frantic noises – like Hermione's desperate gasping – made Gus breathe heavy and become jittery.

"Get off!" Hermione hissed, her arms digging and latching and scraping anything they could. She beat them against the wall and left tiny dents with her knuckles. Her skin began to bruise instantly, which made her shriek. "Stop it, please, stop!"

Frenetic, Ron grabbed her shoulders. She shook underneath his clasp and managed to throw him off. Coming back at her with no thought to it, Ron straddled her, effectively pinning her arms against her hips. His hands grasped her shoulders and forced them to quiet. Her toes curled dangerously and she bucked beneath him for a while, her head thrashing and tossing until her voice was gone.

"_Stop it!_" Ron commanded in a voice he hadn't used in years. It was authoritative and deeply stern. "Hermione, _knock it off._You're going to hurt yourself." He dug his fingers into her skin not to be rough, but to emphasize his point.

And then, Hermione calmed. It was as if her nightmare dissipated, her life breath breathed and gone. Her nostrils still flared and her arms were tight against his thighs, but she was resting still once again.

Ron wiped his forehead and sat on his haunches, breathing heavily. Gus was beside him, his muzzle on the bed nudging the side of his leg. Ron patted his head until Gus' eyes stopped darting about nervously.

"It's okay now, boy," he sighed, "everything is going to be okay."

The fear that had gripped his chest was fading, but at an alarmingly slow rate. Ron still felt phantom pangs of horror. He could still hear her ghastly whisper crying from between cracking lips. Hermione had chewed on the inside of her mouth so hard it bled and turned her lips rose red.

And just for an instant, Ron swore he saw Hermione's lashes shudder. Her mouth drew open unhurriedly. He could hear her steady breath. The color lingered on her cheeks, but thankfully drained from her neck and arms. She was cooling beneath him.

Ron dismounted the bed and replaced the sheets deliberately one by one, tucking her beneath them tightly – a binding trap if she were to have another nightmare. Finally, he collapsed in a pile next to Gus, his back relaxing against the edge of Hermione's mattress.

"What a night," he sighed to the dog. "Right, buddy?"

"Ron?"

Ron's back froze painfully. It was the wind, a breath from Gus, his own heartbeat in his head. It was anything but that, anything but her. He listened, holding his breath.

"…Anyone?" her soft sigh cried, anxious and fearful. "Please?"

Ron stayed absolutely still. His eyes remained unfocused on Gus, who had risen to his paws and was eyeing the bed warily. His lungs began to burn and his mind was sending the sensations throughout his body. He could feel it pounding in his fingertips.

Hermione whimpered a foot away, her voice high and childlike. A dog's whimper. She was completely unaware of his presence. Ron was tempted to keep it that way.

"Please," she pleaded. "Anyone?"

Slowly, Ron stood.

* * *

**A/N: **Tadaaa! She's awake. :) Thanks for all of you guys who waded through all of that set-up. Now things will get really interesting. Have a great weekend!

Also, leave me a review! I love them. :)

-Kate


	8. Tangible

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys, this chapter is going up a bit early this week because I'll be gone this Friday. My grandmother passed away yesterday, so I'll be with my grandpa for the next week. Don't worry, though, I'll have another update next Friday, I promise. This is an apology before-hand if my work seems a little off-kilter this week. It's been trying.

Enjoy the chapter. :)

* * *

She was staring at him when Ron worked up the courage to turn around. Her eyes were like a doll's – wide and empty - devoid of anything that Ron recognized. It scared him. An overwhelming feeling of fear took hold of his belly and worked its way up his body and down his legs. It squeezed his guts and stole around his mind, creating a dense fog in his inner vision. It would not let him turn away again, though he craved to.

Hermione's mouth was opened, but she said nothing. Her face was flushed and that said enough.

The couple stared at each other for what seemed years on end. Even Gus remained silent. Ron felt heavy and stiff – he would not be the first to move, he would not be the first to speak – the hardness of his face presenting the fact to Hermione very obviously. He absolutely refused any personal connection between them, no matter the amount of questions that flowed from her eyes to his and back.

Ron watched as she struggled to inhale. Hermione coughed, her eyes shutting tightly. He was not going to make this easy for her.

"Ron," Hermione managed to croak. Her eyes reached upward to meet his, almost pleadingly. "Ron?"

"What." His voice was thick and bored. Inside, however, he was screaming with every nerve in his system, his feet on fire. The intense urge to scream welled in him. His fingers itched to grasp her shoulders again, only now to throttle her until her eyes rolled back into her head. It took a supreme effort to keep the thoughts dormant.

"Is that you?" her voice was raw from her throat. "Please, tell me it's you."

"Yes, it's me." The rest of the room phased from his eyesight and only she remained. Ron could feel the memories swell and grow in the air, pressing roughly against his back, wishing him to turn around and embrace them again. He could see remembrance swirl in her eyes and around her face. He flinched as her face filled with grotesque wonder.

Hermione's breathing slowed and her fingers clenched softly. Ron could tell that the memories he felt pressing against him were filling her head. He imagined he could see them dancing, laughing, kissing in her irises. Those two black pits grew larger as her recollection grasped at whatever it could. Her skin flushed smoothly, sweetly as if she were becoming embarrassed.

Ron watched as she balked; her mouth still open. Her eyes drew away from his and rested lowly on her hands. He thought she was going to fall asleep again and almost welcomed it.

"I'm so-"

"Stop it," he snapped ruthlessly.

Her eyes wandered hesitantly back to his drawn face. "Ron," she said, her face expressing as much shock as it could. Her skin felt tight and sore. It hurt even to keep her eyes open, the flesh around them was unyielding. "Please – "

"Stop it," he spat. His head shook vigorously, trying to keep the sound of her voice from winding its way into his ears. He wanted to say so much. He wanted to let all the vile his mind had collected in the past two years to pour from his mouth and crash over her and drown her in guilt. He wanted to tell her everything she had missed – the abandon, the pain, the drinking, the move, the dog, the loneliness – and press shame into her body.

Ron kept his jaw clenched tight, feeling all of the muscles in his body sluggishly freeze. He would remain quiet.

Hermione waited a while. Her head burned – a radiating pain that began in the center of her brain and ended at the tips of her ears – but she knew Ron well enough to wait. She blinked and wished the fogginess out of her vision. Her throat was thick and dense, but her chest hurt too badly to cough. She was dazed and didn't exactly remember what Ron looked like. The blackness spotted her sight.

"Where am I?" her voice sounded distant and unfamiliar to her ears. It was the only safe question she knew to ask.

_Home, _Ron was about to say, before he stopped himself. "My flat," he uttered instead. She would never call this place her own.

It took Hermione a few seconds before working up the energy to press further. Her mind whirled, but the rest of her was lethargic. She didn't recognize the place – the room was dim and slightly dirty – nowhere she'd willingly stay. It smelled wrong to her, a mixture of salt and worn clothes. It didn't smell like the home she and Ron had created before.

"Is this ours?" she asked, unsure if Ron had redone the place, owned it alone long enough to claim complete ownership.

"No," Ron's reply came sharply. "This is my place. I moved."

"When?" she asked, feeling some kind of disheartening sadness somewhere in her chest. Her body felt numb and unusable.

"Seven months and two days after you left," he felt sure in his response. Ron finally had the upper hand, finally he was the one who knew everything, finally he wasn't the one left with only questions.

"Oh," her reply was a sigh. Her eyes darted to the peeling wallpaper next to her ear. She felt filthy just lying in the bed under is scrutiny.

Ron cleared his throat. "It's been quite a while."

Guilt ripped through her tired body and shredded her heart. She was alert enough to feel the shame that his words carried. If they could have, tears would have sprung to her eyes. "I know," she answered quietly.

"Do you?" his laugh was cruel. He bent over to peer into her face and asked, "Do you really know how long it's been?"

Hermione felt the first twinge of fear she had experienced in an extremely long time. It was bittersweet. She was elated at seeing Ron's face, hearing his voice, even listening to the emotion it carried. However, fear had taken a rightful hold upon her and his voice brought back memories that had nothing to do with him.

"It's been a long fucking time," he spat, closer to her now. He could see her eyes contract, then widen, and her nose flare. "Even longer, considering I've been alone."

"Ron-" the assuredness of her voice failed her.

"Don't interrupt me," Ron barked, pointing a rigid finger at her. "Especially not after two years of silence – I waited for you for what seemed like a lifetime." He crouched down next to her, his face inches from hers. "I finally thought I got over you, but you couldn't leave me alone, could you? You had to _haunt_ me. You had me care for you like a fucking _child_."

"No," she whispered, turning her head as best she could. Her neck was taut against the unwanted strain. Her nose became hot and the inclination to cry fully consumed her. This was not why she had left – she hadn't wanted to torture him. It was simply what was needed of her, a job, something he would understand sooner or later if he just let her explain. "No, Ron-"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" he seethed, his hot breath rolling in waves over her face. It made her cringe and he enjoyed seeing the disgust ripple through her. "You left. You weren't supposed to come back – not like this. Were you trying to push it in my face? That I was nothing without you? That I'll always be beneath you, no matter what? That the only purpose I serve is to cater to your every whim? To feed and bathe and clothe you?" With each question that escaped, his voice grew exceedingly louder until he was screaming.

Tears trickled down Hermione's hot cheeks. _It wasn't supposed to be like this._

"I am my own man," he shouted, "I survived. I dealt with all of this shit you left me with – it's all packed up in boxes and ready to be destroyed. I was fine before you showed up again. You ruined my life not only once, but twice. I got back up; you had to knock me down."

"Ron," Hermione whispered, wanting to touch his face, soothe him. "Please."

"I never wanted you here," he hissed loudly, trying to calm himself. It felt horribly appeasing to say all the ghastly things his mind had collected. "That prick Seamus forced you on me – came here to _my house_ and threatened to expunge me from _my own fucking job _– and I never had a choice." He ran both hands across his head and down his face. "I wished you had just died out there."

"No," Hermione cried pitifully. "No, Ron, you can't say that." She gasped for breath as fat tears dripped onto her clothes and sheets. Pressure built on her chest. "You can't," her voice was ragged with hurt.

"Yeah," there was a steely glint in his sharp eyes, "I can say that. You don't have any say in my life anymore, despite what you might think. I don't need you."

"No!" she whimpered.

"The moment that bitch McDowell says you're fine, you're leaving here. I never want to see you again after this." Ron's voice had a punctuated finality to it that left Hermione in utter, uncontrollable despair.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she breathed. It burned, but she moved her hand up to touch him – Ron didn't understand. If only he would just _listen_. "Please."

But before Hermione's fingers could claim purchase on his cheek, Ron shoved himself backward. He seemed absolutely repulsed by the idea that she would try to touch him. His guts wretched.

Ron stood again and motioned for Gus, who had been waiting quite patiently in the doorframe. He nuzzled the dog's ears and felt a small amount of composure fill him. He breathed through his nose and the world settled.

"Do you need anything." It was more of a statement than a question, reflecting his disgust at having to be at her beck and call once again.

Hermione shut her eyes tightly, feeling the unshed tears drop onto her pillow, and mouthed the word, "No." If she had even tried to speak, her anguish would escape in a horribly embarrassing manner.

Ron nodded curtly and turned to go. "Come, boy," his voice was hard.

"Ron?" Hermione choked back, hoping that this last-ditch effort would reward her in some small way.

"What." He didn't turn to look at her.

"I," she seemed to suffocate on her own words, "I, I lov-"

"Don't." Ron's voice halted the rest of her sentence. He turned only his head to see her. "Don't you ever fucking say that to me again. You don't have the right, not anymore."

Ron fled the room before even finishing his sentence. Hermione closed her eyes stiffly. She was alone and hated – an all too familiar sensation. She had to wait a long time before the weight on her chest dissipated, flinching every time she heard Ron banging around downstairs in a fit of fury.

What had she expected from him though, really? For him to be alright with her departure? She hadn't meant for the mission to be that long, but Ron didn't know that. And knowing Ron, it would take a very long time before she would be able to explain it to him.

However, this wasn't the Ron she had known before. His face had grown long and pale, his voice deeper and substantial, his body wiry and boney. He was angrier, more hateful, and demeaning. All the life that she remembered gleaming through his eyes had been replaced with a vacant sort of uncertainty.

Then, she wept. It didn't take very long for her body to exhaust and lull into sleep, but Hermione felt more degradation and spite flow through her than ever before.

* * *

**A/N: **I really hope you enjoyed it - it was very hard to write. I didn't know which way Ron would go, but it seemed to develop by itself. Have a great rest-of-the-week-plus-weekend, everyone.

Leave me some love!

Kate


	9. Too Far Gone

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys, another Wednesday night update! It worked well last week. Thank you to all of you who left condolances for my family after my grandmother's passing. It helped.

ANYWAY, here is another chapter. :) I really hope you enjoy it. It's fleshing out really nicely.

* * *

Gus appeared at his owner's side, his snout nudging the limp hand hanging off the side of the bed. In his mouth was a small, yellow letter. On the corner was the Order's emblem embossed neatly in green wax. The dog knew it was to go to Ron immediately.

When the cold sensation bothering him did not subside, Ron awoke very slowly. "Hey, buddy," he greeted the dog with gruff, husky voice. He reached out with stiff fingers and scratched the fur between Gus' brown eyes. He blinked and – his vision sharpening – noticed the parchment.

Ron groaned. "Another?"

Gus cocked his head, not understanding the words. He again butted his nose against his master's thick hand.

Ron grunted and withdrew the letter. It was mid-morning and the light shone clearly through the small window above the headboard of the bed. Rolling over, he unfolded the paper roughly and held it up to the rays of sun to read.

_Weasley,_

_Glad to see the McDowell happy – must mean that you actually filed the paperwork. I know I sound like a right git getting on you like this, but it's my job. Just checking in to see how Granger's doing. It's been a couple of days now and no one has heard anything, besides your official report. Just making sure neither of you have offed the other, right? Always knew how you two 'got along.' Trying to be a friend here._

_Oh, and Gin sends her love. Just popped by the office as I was writing. Brought treats for the whole department. She's a jewel, your sister. _

_Best be off,_

_Seamus_

Ron didn't think much of the reading and let the paper flutter to the ground. He rubbed his eyes and dreaded getting out of bed. It had, in fact, been four days since Hermione had woken for the first time. She had slept a lot after the initial moments of consciousness, providing the time for Ron to drearily slog through months of medical testimony. It had been four, glorious days in which he hadn't looked at a single report, hadn't filed a single statement, and hadn't even glanced at a quill.

Gus whined, attracting Ron's attention once again. In his jaws was a small, wrapped parcel.

"What kind of dog _are_ you?" Ron asked; his voice heavy with amazement. Without waiting for a reply, he untied the strings and found that inside was a chocolate biscuit. Popping it in his mouth, Ron brushed off his hands and stared down at Gus. "Seriously, mate," he spewed crumbs, "can you pick up my groceries as well?"

---

Hermione's eyes were downcast when Ron entered her room. She had asked for books the day before, when Ron was about to leave. He had muttered something about being her whipping boy and slammed the door behind him. She didn't retain much hope, but her thirst for something to distract her from the unbearable silence of the room overpowered her intuition to remain quiet in Ron's presence.

His footsteps made her innards cringe. Each one resounded in her ears with a message of anxiety and loathing. Ron had made it very clear that they were not on speaking grounds. Even a wayward glance would elicit a callous murmur. He only came to deliver meals and to carry her to the bathroom. She was nothing more than a problem.

Yet, lying on her nightstand was a copy of _Advanced Medical Potions: Practical Treatments for Obscure Symptoms, Edition IV_. Ron was placing a small tray of food next to her lamp.

Hermione looked away quickly. Something in her belly grew warm and content. She offered him a slight smile, but Ron shook it off as nothing. The feeling lessened, but still remained.

Ron went to exit the room again, feeling uneasy and nervous. He hid it well, but his hands were trembling. The small encounters everyday were wracking to his mindset. It felt like he was being judged every time he stepped foot into her eyesight, like all the things he did for her were being scrutinized. It was a sensitivity he had developed in his first year at Hogwarts – the first few months he had spent with Hermione.

"Wipe your hands before you touch it," he said angrily.

"Thanks," Hermione replied gently, but her gratitude was not fully expressed, as the door slammed before she could finish her word. Her head bent and that comfort in her stomach dissipated.

Ron stood outside the door for a moment. His pulse was pounding. He inwardly kicked himself – he had let himself ruin a simple situation. He could have said nothing at all and everything would have been fine. He just couldn't let his animosity abate – it was overflowing when he laid eyes on her. He sighed heavily and rushed down the stairs to somewhere quieter, somewhere where his thoughts could ebb.

Hermione considered not eating dinner and simply taking up the text, but quickly thought again. She had done that last night in protest of Ron's rudeness, but he had rewarded her efforts with a refusal to take her to the bathroom. She had felt helpless – her legs were not yet up to walking, not even crawling. She had shouted to the best of her ability, cried, and pleaded for hours until he stormed in and screamed at her to shut up.

She ate deliberately, her throat sometimes refusing to swallow. Though it was mostly soup and crackers, Hermione's muscles did not seem to understand their former functions. It made it difficult to grasp things, eat food, speak aloud. It made her tear up in frustration.

"Damnit, Ron," she whispered, pushing her plate off her lap. She wiped her eyes and knotted her hands in what hair she had left.

As if rising to her challenge, Ron threw her door open moments later. His eyes were bright with the expectation of hostility.

"What's wrong?" his voice was deep and commanding. The moment he had settled on the sofa next to Gus, a crash had sounded above his head. It was not like Hermione to cause a fuss, so his mind flew instantly to something more terrible. He had been seriously forewarned of the threats The Shop had imposed against his houseguest.

"Where did all of my hair go?" Hermione's mouth formed the words without the consent of her mind. She fisted her hair again. "It used to be long!"

Ron stood stiffly next to her bed, his wand dangling uselessly in his grasp. "What?"

"Did you cut it off?" she demanded harshly. "Did you? _Did you?_"

Ron had no idea what to say. Hermione had been perfectly fine ten minutes previous. He stared at her with a dumbfounded expression.

Her voice was shrill. "You did! You bastard! Just because you're angry with me doesn't mean you can shave off all my hair – you don't even understand."

"Don't you tell me that I don't understand," Ron interjected sternly. His surprise had been swiftly replaced with rising anger.

"Shut up!" Hermione screamed, her fists now wrapped around her sheets. "Just _shut up!_"

"You want me to understand you," Ron shouted back, "but you never give me the chance, do you? You don't want to explain anything!"

"Where is my hair?" Hermione screamed, tears running down her red cheeks. "What did you do with it?"

"I didn't do a thing to it!" he roared, pocketing his wand. He feared that if pressed further, he might do something rash with it. "You showed up with it that way!"

"Liar!" she screeched.

Ron descended upon her. "Don't you call me a liar," he barked furiously. "Don't you dare!"

"Get away from me!" Hermione bawled, genuine fear shining in her expression.

Ron stopped. He spread out his hands. "What the hell do you want from me, Hermione? Honestly?"

"I want my hair back," she wailed, the earlier determination her voice carried gone. "I just want it back." She looked up at him with fright-filled, innocent eyes. "What did you do with it?"

Ron was absolutely shocked by her frame of mind. He had done nothing with her hair. He said nothing.

"Tell me!" Hermione demanded. "Tell me what you did!" Some abnormal reasoning had stolen into her mind. Once she knew where her hair had gone, she would be able to calm down, but not until then.

"Nothing!" Ron yelled, livid. "You want to know what happened?"

"_Yes!_" Hermione screamed, returning with more force than she had begun with. Her face was an ugly red color, splotches of white appearing on her neck. Veins bulged beneath the lean skin. "Haven't you been listening to me? Yes!"

"They shaved it off," Ron barked, taken aback by her sudden burst of fury. "That job you took, that job that was more important than me, that ludicrous job that almost got you killed. _The Shop_," he spat, the words like poison on his tongue, "The Shop shaved it off. I don't know when and I could hardly give a damn as to why."

"What?" Hermione whispered unbelievingly. She did not remember the supposed ritual, and she had recalled quite a bit about living at The Shop's headquarters. "You're lying," she hissed. "You always lie!"

"Oh, really," Ron seethed back, his fingers itching to strike her. He could feel heat crawling up his neck like fire. "Then I guess that makes you a big, fucking hypocrite."

Hermione glared at him, her fists tightening painfully around her blankets. She could not dispute this, not even through the haze of her rage.

Ron continued, not satisfied with just a statement. No, he felt the need to elaborate. "You have the nerve to call me a liar? Have you looked at yourself lately – or at all in the past two and a half years? You're the one who left, not _me_." He pointed to himself fiercely. "You're the one who never called, never wrote, never said a word while I was left wondering where the hell you went. You never once tried to contact me – let me know you were alright, let me know that I didn't have to be confused anymore. You expect me to believe that you didn't think it would hurt me? That everything would be okay when you woke up? I know I sound like a broken record, but maybe just once you'll _listen_."

He dropped to her level, his haunches spread wide. "This is _my_ time to be angry – this is _my_ time to call names. So when I tell you that your Shop family cut off all your precious fucking hair, then that's what happened." He scoffed in her wet, splotchy face and stood up, realizing his proximity to her.

"Some family they turned out to be," he huffed.

Hermione began to bawl again, after the initial reaction wore off. She wanted him to turn around, to sit down, to smooth her forehead like he used to. She was struck by a sudden hollow feeling. Ron's hands were always large and smooth, drawing the stress away from her body when they touched her. Now he would barely look at her. Something was missing – a large, gaping hole was somewhere in her, struggling to be filled.

"Did they really?" she sniffed, focusing in on her limp tresses.

Ron was about to snap _Didn't I just say they did?, _but the tone and demeanor of her voice stopped the harsh infliction. She was nothing more than a girl. He recognized the fright in her voice as something vulnerable and not familiar to Hermione. Anything more he said would have half the effect he would want – it would simply be said to be cruel.

"Yes," his voice was restrained, less sharp.

"Why?" her hair barely reached her ears. Fingering it softly, Hermione could not help the tears of mourning dripping down her face. Her hair had always been a shield – something detracting to her overall beauty that made people leave her alone. Those who could see past it were those who really cared. Hermione felt naked and cold.

Ron shrugged. The quick hunch of his shoulders was what drew Hermione away from her sadness, back to the situation filling the room. "I have no idea – probably did it when they tortured you."

_…When they tortured you… _

The words felt weird and fumbling in his mouth. It was as if torture was nothing more than a prick of the finger. Ron sensed hesitation mounting, recalling the banshee Hermione had been that one night. Was that how she had looked in their cell, or wherever it was they kept her? Would she react that way again, now? Fling herself at him, finally remembering the pain, and scratch at his cheeks with bloody fingers? He almost didn't want to turn around.

However, Hermione did not say a thing. She shivered. It started from her belly and wormed its way to her limbs, her neck, her fingers, her lips. She pulled the covers over herself and laid her head on her pillow. She closed her eyes and wished to be far, far away. The memories were faint, but defined, and she would not allow them to pollute her now.

Upon hearing the eerie silence, Ron had no choice but to pivot and lay eyes on Hermione. She was no longer crying, though her tears had not yet dried on her clothes and neck. She was not even sniffling or wiping her eyes.

"Please leave," she whispered with cracked lips. She rolled to the side, facing the wall desolately.

"…Are you alright?" Ron feared he had, in fact, drawn up toxic thoughts of the past. His voice quivered as he asked.

Hermione shuddered, before replying, "Get out."

Ron's face once again grew stern. "Fine."

There was not a night to date that Hermione had not cried herself to sleep.

---

After his fourth gin, Ron lazed across his bed. He had not bothered to change or light a candle. Instead, he simply lay looking up at the window. The moonlight was faint and spider webbing across the corners of the room. It was silent.

He thought of his life, conjuring up everything he had done wrong with it. All of the mistakes he made and all of the words he wish he had never said blazed across his brain. It made him cringe, like picking at scabs or pulling out stitches. His wounds were everywhere and still ripe, bloody.

Why did he put himself through all this? Ron stared at the ceiling. He imagined Hermione's limp body resting in his bed. She was right above him, after all. He pictured her relaxed face, her pouted lips, her frail shoulder moving like a soft tide in rhythm with her breathing. He ached to be able to hold her in his arms again.

Ron was dazedly surprised when the notion did not pass quickly, as did all of the others. He supposed it was all of the booze loaded in him. He felt warm. He spent many moments picturing her cradled in his embrace, her head lying sleepily against his broad shoulder. Just like the way it had been.

Maybe, he thought, he should give this another chance. Offer her the redemption she so coveted from him. It would not be grand and swooning, but perhaps gentle and unrushed. Possibly he would regulate his temper, show her that he too still cared.

Drunk and sleepy, Ron's eyes closed. Maybe he would not remember the night's deliberations.

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it?? Haha, I hope you did. I'm beginning to like these cliffhanger-endings.

Have a GREAT Valentine's Day everyone! I, for one, cannot wait to eat a lot of chocolate. :) Also, have a great weekend, too.

Leave me a review!

Kate


	10. With a Little Help

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP :(

**A/N: **Hey guys - I think I'm going to start updating on Wednesdays now. It works easier for me and hopefully for you. :)

Anyway, THANKS to all of you who left a review -- they were all so great!!

For this chapter, I went in a different direction. I figured if I wrote one more _Ron-and-Hermione-bicker-the-entire-chapter_ chapter, then everyone would get sick of it. So, I'm introducing the appearence of different characters. Adding Ginny, Seamus, etc. every here and there. Also, you have to go into this reading knowing that Heather McDowell IS NOT a Mary Sue, I PROMISE. I just want to make this story as realistic as possible. :)

Enjoy!!

* * *

There was a short rap on the door. At first, Ron didn't think anything of it. His flat had a lot of creaks and groans that sounded at all times of day. The noise disturbed him again, this time drawing him from his business at his desk.

"What is that?" he asked no one particular, looking to Gus.

The dog's eyebrows raised and he clambered to his feet. Drawing close to his master, Gus sniffed at Ron's pocket. The knock coming from the front hall grew louder and more insistent. Frantically, Gus poked and prodded his gray snout into the side of his master's denim jeans.

"Get away," Ron slapped Gus' nose hesitantly. When the dog persisted – almost paranoid – Ron touched his pocket. It was full.

The knocking continued.

Utterly frustrated, Ron stood and delved into his pocket with grasping fingers. Producing a letter, he started towards the door. "Gus!" he exclaimed, his brow furrowing, "why do you do this to me?"

For an answer, Gus whined and skittered into the hallway to sniff at the bottom of the door. He could see the shadows of shoes interrupting the light that usually beamed through the gap between ground and door. He knew who was coming.

"Just a bloody second!" Ron roared as he reached the main hall. His hands ripped the note open and he leaned against the doorframe to read.

_**Dated Sunday, May 16, from the Head Desk of Senior Healer H. McDowell:**_

_Dear Mr. Ronald Weasley,_

_If I may make a formal introduction, my name is Heather McDowell of St. Mungos' Rehabilitation Ward. I specialize in injuries and illnesses like Ms. Hermione Granger's – my official heading is under the Prolonged Unidentified Symptoms and Experimental Treatments. A lot of scientific words and useless titles, I know, but I wish you to know my qualifications before I delve into the subject at hand._

_I am requesting a visit with the aforementioned Ms. Granger on Tuesday, specifically around eleven. I am the overseer on her case, as requested by an organization I hesitate to mention in a letter, but one I'm sure you are well aware of and affiliated with. I have read the submitted paperwork, but I have some follow-up questions that I would prefer to hear from the patient herself. I also have a few more forms that I am trusting you will fill out upon my arrival._

_Please contact me in the correct department at St. Mungos if a problem arises, but expect me promptly by eleven. I have already cleared the time with the aforementioned organization. I apologize for any inconvenience this visit may cause. _

_Sincerely,_

_Snr. Hlr. H. McDowell_

Ron threw the letter down and looked at his wrist. There was no watch to be found. He glanced around quickly and found a clock resting haphazardly on the edge of the mantelpiece in the sitting room. It read exactly eleven.

There was another knock. "Hello?" a decidedly female voice called tersely. "Is this the Weasley residence?"

"Merlin," Ron muttered, as he launched himself at the door. He fumbled with the latch and eventually threw it open. "Tell England where I live, why don't you?" he hissed.

"There's a silencing bubble on the front doorstep," the female voice replied. "Even I know that." The visitor brushed past his shoulder as she made her way into the main hall, uninvited. She was older, with a hunch in her shoulders and what seemed like arthritis-plagued knees. She was wearing sunglasses and a light fleece, a flowered scarf tied neatly about her white hair.

Ron slammed the door shut, glaring at his dog who was noticeably restraining himself from jumping on the new guest. Gus whined again and withdrew to a corner.

"Come right in," he growled at the back of her head.

The woman took off her coat languidly, looking at her surroundings. "Nice enough place," was her offhanded remark.

"Why, thank you," Ron retorted with clenched teeth. "May I take your coat?"

"Oh yes," the woman answered in a much more amiable voice. She turned and handed him the jacket.

Ron stopped with his hand only halfway outstretched. The woman standing before him looked nothing like the old woman she had walked in as. Though still tiny in stature, her hair had grown sleek black and shoulder length. The hunch in her shoulders disappeared to reveal a slender, conservatively-dressed frame. Her eyes flashed from behind bangs that had come unpinned.

"Mr. Weasley?" she questioned, her voice thick with a distinctive Irish accent. "Mr. Weasley, are you alright?"

She was addressing him as though he were a man of fifty. She looked young, but not naïve enough to mistake his age. Perhaps the strict formality that he had read in her letter carried into her speech.

"Yes," Ron managed to mumble, closing his fingers around the soft fabric. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Good," she smiled softly. She was watching him closely, unabashedly.

There was an awkward silence as Ron went to hang up the woman's jacket. He felt his pulse become irregular. It had been years since he had been around strangers – especially women. It had been hard enough making conversation with Ginny. How would he make do with Heather McDowell, Healer Extraordinaire?

When he returned, his guest was petting Gus and whispering things Ron guessed were praises. She straitened upon seeing him and smoothed her collared blouse. She was a smartly-dressed woman, attractive in a sharp sense. It made him feel dizzy.

"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you directly, Mr. Weasley," she said, walking toward him. She held out an open hand, her fingernails painted a crisp red.

Ron grasped it uncertainly. "Call me Ron," his voice seemed foreign in his ears.

"Heather," she answered warmly. "I apologize if my letter arrived late. I just wrote it Sunday night. I simply forgot to do it earlier – been dealing with a nasty case of a cocktail curse all weekend." Her accent curled all of her 'r's, making them sound smooth.

"It's alright," the odd sensation of not belonging to his body overtook Ron. He was going through the motions of greeting that he had forgotten about long ago.

She let go of his hand first and brushed hers off against her leg. "Well," she sighed, obviously not letting the awkwardness of the situation seize her, "let's get this started, shall we?"

"Yes," Ron answered lamely. He stood to the side and gestured to the stairs. "Let me show you to her."

"Perfect," Heather said, starting up them. "Thank you."

In a few minutes, Heather had found Hermione's room and gracefully entered without so much as knocking. It didn't matter, as her patient was still deep in slumber. Hermione always rested after breakfast. Ron stood in the doorframe and explained all of this.

Heather nodded as she took a pair of heavy, black glasses out of her slacks and placed them gently on her nose. They engulfed half of her face, making her look slightly comical. Her eyebrows rose at his grin. Ron continued – albeit red-faced – and elucidated his personal treatments. Heather searched for her wand and then conjured up a briefcase filled with documents and sample kits, all the while mumbling messages of understanding.

At the end of Ron's discourse, Heather rocked back and forth on her heels. Her gaze flickered from him to Hermione and back again. She had an expensive looking quill in-between her teeth. "Alright," she drew out, "it sounds like you've been doing a thorough job, if I may comment."

"Sure," Ron responded, a bit surprised. He had found it easier to speak since his lecture on treatment. "Any recommendations?" The words flowed painlessly from his lips as long as he considered Heather McDowell and Healer and not a woman.

Her mouth screwed up in thought and finally she replied, "After my examination. I'll be able to have a more rounded view on Ms. Granger's condition and it will be less of a guess, better for the both of you."

It was Ron's turn to nod.

"Alright, well," Heather turned to her briefcase and extracted a thick, manila folder, "if you'll take these and fill them out, it'd be of great service to me."

Ron took them quietly.

"Please don't take this as a sign of rudeness, Mr. Weasley," Heather began, folding her hands in front of her.

Ron stiffened considerably at her reverse of formality.

Heather smiled and continued, "But I need you to step out of the room now. This is a strictly confidential procedure and I don't want to risk a liability."

He jerked his head and slid away from the door, feeling the pull of the brandy downstairs.

"I hope you understand!" her feminine voice called after him.

Ron made no move to respond. Instead, his feet carried him down the stairs drudgingly. They took him to the kitchen, to the booze cabinet, to a glass of warm ale. He took it to the living room and glared on the work he had been finishing. Instead of completing the files on time, he would have to postpone in order to finalize his _new_ work.

Ron took a great sip and lowered himself on the sofa. Gus soon joined him, but Ron was not in a giving mood. He glowered at the dog, simmering in his discontent. Gus lowered his head and settled near the fireplace, facing away. Ron finished the ale and began work on the new papers.

They were simple forms, asking him who he was, who his patient was, what their history was, her physical state, her mental state, her 'recovery timeline' and her place on it, his medical opinion of her progress, et cetera. His handwriting was quick and messy. He did not care a rat's ass about anything he wrote, for he had written it several times before. He also knew that these files were simply going to be stored away, never to be looked over again, and overall a giant waste of time.

---

"Ms. Granger," Heather spoke softly, jostling her patient's shoulder. "Ms. Granger, can you hear me?"

Hermione stirred, feeling the weight on her body. "Lunch already?" her voice sounded meek and surprised.

"No, Ms. Granger," Heather retorted, "you have a guest."

Hermione blinked, coming to. Realizing it was not, in fact, Ron, she jolted from her place and pressed her back firmly against the wall. Her fingers were still clutching her blankets. "Ron!" she sounded strangled and confused. "_Ron!_"

"Please, Ms. Granger," Heather was taken aback, but not thoroughly shocked by Hermione's actions. It would not be the first time she had encountered a less-than-willing patient. "Settle down, I'm not here to hurt you."

"_Ron!_" Hermione's voice was gaining strength. "_Where are you?_"

"Ms. Granger, my name is Heather McDowell – I'm a Senior Healer at St. Mungos – I'm here to help you," Heather set down her clipboard and held out her hands, face-up. "I've got nothing. I promise. I'm here to help." She reverted to her smile.

"Ron!" Tears were threatening at the edge of Hermione's eyes. "Please, don't do this to me." She squeezed them tight, wishing she were someplace else. "Please. _Come back!_"

"Ms. Granger, please," Heather began.

"Stop calling me that!" Hermione snapped, sick of hearing the address slip from the stranger's mouth. "Ron?"

---

Ron heard shouting from above. He shrugged it off curtly, a quill clamped tightly between his fingers. _Women_, he thought.

---

Finally, Heather had soothed Ms. Granger into submission. It was enough to perform her regular functions – weight, height, pallor, balance, vision, blood work, muscle tone and strength – and the tasks were accomplished in a regular amount of time. Overall, Heather was pleased with herself. She would be able to quit the apartment and be able to report her findings before her normal six o'clock departure for home.

---

It took Ron an hour and a half before he heard his name called.

"Mr. Weasley!" Heather McDowell's voice carried quite well in the small home. "Mr. Weasley, can you come up here for a moment?"

Ron gathered his work, grumbling, and found Heather leaning against the railing at the top of the stairs. She smiled when she saw him.

"There you are."

"I _live_ here," he grumbled in response. "What do you need me for now?"

Heather stopped him before he reached the top stair. Ron noticed that Hermione's bedroom door had been closed tightly. His eyebrow rose when her hand met his shoulder kindly.

"I've given her a sleeping draught," she replied. "The exam was a little more, uh, draining than I thought it would be for her."

"You mean all that screaming that was going on earlier? That was part of your test – vocal reaction?" Ron asked sarcastically, following Heather back down his stairs. His agitation with the woman was beginning to grow – she had quite the nerve. It wasn't enough that she didn't find his medical opinion qualified, or that she didn't approve of his home, but that she found herself capable of treating _his_ patient without _his_ consent.

Heather stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall and turned to face him. Without bothering with a response to his earlier retort, she asked, "Is there a place where I can sit? I hope you don't mind my asking, but my feet are hurting."

"Right this way," Ron answered diffidently, gesturing slightly to the sitting room. He seated Heather in the better chair, as was custom to do for a lady, and sat opposite her with a glare on his features.

Heather smoothed her slacks before bringing her leg to cross the other. "Well," she said primly, "Hermione Granger is in much better condition than I thought she would be."

Ron snorted. "Did you think I was lying on my paperwork?"

Heather blushed, replying, "I thought you were… being overzealous in your evaluations. I see now that my assumptions about you, Mr. Weasley, were wrong. I apologize."

"Ron," he answered shortly, "I told you to call me Ron. 'Mr. Weasley' makes me uncomfortable." Frankly, her apology made him feel uncomfortable as well. He was not used to being praised.

"Right," Heather laughed, "sorry. I forgot."

There was a silence, when Ron felt uncomfortably warm in his shirt and Heather looked about aimlessly, trying to calm her fidgety hands. Ron's apartment was in disrepair. Not totally a dump, but slowly getting there. She could see the dust hanging in the sunlit air.

"Here," Ron said after a while, throwing the manila files on her lap. "I finished them."

"Thank you," she smiled again, dimples denting her cheeks. "I know it's a pain, but that's half of what my job entails. I must spend whole days owling the whole department for their records. I come off as quite pushy to some."

"I've heard," Ron recalled Seamus' previous letters.

He watched the woman blush prettily. He turned his head.

"Anyway, as I was saying," Heather once again found her voice, "Hermione Granger looks extraordinary. From a medical standpoint, that is. Hand-eye coordination is superb, reflexes back to normal, things like that. Her legs are still very weak, but that's to be expected in coma patients." She waved her hand, "Anyway, a month or so of exercise will cure her of that. All in all, I have to admit it Ron - you are one fine caregiver."

"Thank you," he felt the heat creeping up his neck. He scratched at it, feeling nothing but his beard stubble.

"There is one thing that concerns me, though," Heather's voice grew serious, as did her countenance. Her fingers folded tightly into each other as she uncrossed her legs.

"And what would that be?"

"Her mental health." There was to be no getting around it. Hermione Granger was acutely, psychologically scarred. She flinched at Heather's commands, drew away from her touch, cried when asked to remove her clothes, and squirmed away from Heather's wand. All the symptoms of a torture victim were readily apparent.

"What about it?"

"I'm going to request a follow-up session with Ms. Granger." Heather was leaning over the arm of her chair, speaking clearly and precisely. "In order to fully heal, she will also have to deal with her past. It's already hard for her in the present – this kind of thing cannot continue if she wants to lead a normal life after her recuperation."

"Alright," Ron's voice was hard. He did not see any reason to bring in anyone unneeded. He could help Hermione cope – it was obvious she required his assistance with it. However, the sooner she healed, the sooner she would leave him be.

Heather took out her clipboard from her pocket and began scribbling something down. "I _would_ make you an appointment with Head Healer Andy Keene for next Monday – seeing as how he's a good psychologist and he specializes in long-term trauma patients…"

"But?"

"Unfortunately, The Order is afraid that having so many visitors over in such a short span of time might compromise your hideout. I will replace Mr. Keene and report here at eleven exactly." She finished scribbling, grinned, and handed him the paper. "Just another to add to your collection."

Ron did not want Heather McDowell to return. He did not want to hear about Andy Keene. He did not want to be informed on Hermione Granger's mental state. He just wanted to go to sleep.

He snatched it from her and pushed it into the cushions he was sitting on when she turned away.

"I should be going, then," Heather spoke. She stood abruptly and walked into the hall, summoning her coat from the rack. She was finally beginning to feel awkward – Ron Weasley was not the easiest man to get along with. It would be better if she left.

Ron helped Heather slip the fleece around her shoulders. He stood impatiently by the door, his hand on the latch, and waited for her to exit.

Heather flipped her black hair out of the collar and sighed. "Oh!" she exclaimed, turning to face him. Her mouth was open in a perfect oval.

"What?" Ron couldn't help but grinning.

"I forgot to tell you that Seamus Finnigan is going to be stopping by," she exclaimed, throwing her hand to her forehead. "Sorry."

"When?"

Heather scrunched her eyebrows, fully embarrassed by herself. "I think he said next week. Perhaps we'll both appear, if The Order's not against it. It'd save us both the hassle of securing protection charms. Discretionary business is such a hassle."

Ron shrugged, feeling as if his life were completely out of his hands. He had no control over who came or who went. The only thing constant was his irritation. "Can I inquire as to his motives?" he asked, dreadfully sarcastic.

"Seamus needs to complete an intelligence report that he's been working on. He can't present it without an interview with Ms. Granger." The subject made Heather itch to change it soon. She had been told that Hermione would need to recant her experiences in The Shop's camp during her last few weeks as a member. It would be a difficult thing to sit through.

"I guess I can't refuse," Ron shrugged again, trying to shake away the curiosity that was rising inside of him. Though he no longer cared for Hermione, he would do almost anything to know where she had gone and what she had done without him. He also found it unfair that Seamus, of all people, would be privy to the information.

Heather stood next to the door, waiting for the dreamy look in Ron's eyes to dissipate. He would a handsome fellow, if he bothered to shave and dress properly. His face was drawn and gaunt, but she still observed his strong chin and nose. His body was lean and long, his fingers knobby. There were freckles everywhere.

Ron blinked and realized he was under her scrutiny yet again. Quickly, he shoved the latch down and the door opened.

"Well," Heather smiled again; her cheeks still flushed slightly, "goodbye, Ron."

"Goodbye," he answered gruffly.

Heather tucked her scarf under her chin and stepped out of the flat. Ron shut the door before she had time to look back, taking pleasure in the echoing sound of the slam. Finally, he felt safe and calm. Everything was quiet again.

Ron glared at Gus one last time. The dog ducked out of the way as Ron went to the kitchen to prepare an early dinner.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! I hope you guys approve. :) If not, let me know, and I'll make some revisions. Have a great rest of the week!!

Also, drop me a review!! Thanks. :)

Katie


	11. If I Could

**Dislcaimer: **Don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys! Sorry about the delay. This week was finals week and if you live in Iowa - or anywhere else in the Midwestern United States - like I do, then you know the weather has been absolutely batty. Rain, ice, snow, hail, etc, etc. Studying has been the worst. Half the time school isn't even open.

Anyway, to make it up to everyone, I stayed up all last night and wrote almost triple my normal amount. I really hope you like reading, because to me, the story is getting very interesting. Enjoy!

* * *

"Are you asleep?"

Ron had walked into the bedroom carrying a tray of food only to find Hermione resting calmly underneath her covers. Lately, she had taken to reading before supper – a book propped open on her lap while her eyes ravaged it without another thought to anything else. He would have to bang the door and shuffle his feet to get her attention. Not tonight, however.

Hermione's eyes were closed serenely, her hands nowhere near the tomes stacked on the side table. Her chest was moving softly, slowly.

"No," her voice was a whisper, but Ron heard it.

He drew closer, setting the tray down, and looked at her. "Then do you want to eat?" There was a slight hint of agitation in his voice.

"Not really," her voice hardened to match his. She had learned very quickly that Ron held absolutely no sympathy for her plight. She would no longer expect any.

Ron shrugged and grabbed a handful of carrots off of her plate. He shoved some rudely into his mouth before asking, "Why not?"

"My stomach hurts."

Ron chewed.

There was a silence, only filled by Ron's crunching and greasy fingers scrambling across the dinner plate for more. The anxious ache in Hermione's belly continued to grow under Ron's unflinching stare. She wished him gone, but dared not voice her thoughts.

"You sick?" he asked, his question more curious than terse.

Hermione rolled over to face the wall. "Maybe."

Ron began to get angry, as was any case when he was forced to act civilly towards Hermione. She didn't have to act like this to him. He eyed the half-eaten plate before asking, "Well, what's wrong?"

"I'm worried," was the mumbled, plain answer. Hermione cringed as her stomach cramped. She wasn't sick in a physical sense at all, but she had made herself ill on wondering what tomorrow would bring. Presently, it was Sunday night. The next morning was her appointment with Healer McDowell.

"About what?" Ron asked, shifting his lean weight to one leg. It gave him the appearance of being totally disinterested. That was his cover.

Hermione shrugged, closing her eyes. "Tomorrow," she answered through a yawn.

Ron stood and thought for a while. "Why?"

Again, Hermione shrugged. Her frustration with Ron was increasing to the point where she had to smother the urge to yell. Her one word answers were for a reason – to get across the point she did not want to talk. "I just don't like being touched."

Ron nodded, not needing to answer. He knew that already, coming from the way she shook when he carried her to the bathroom, the way she never took things directly from his hands, the way she cowered when he raised his fists in the heat of an argument. She was completely different from the woman who used to love having arms wrapped around her waist and kisses planted on the side of her neck.

"Will you be there?" she asked hesitantly, her voice almost non-existent. Underneath the covers, her fingers curled tightly into her palms.

The question broke Ron out of his bittersweet remembrances of the past. Her inquiry brought sweat to the back of his neck. He rubbed it self-consciously. The immediate response to it was _No, _but he found he couldn't say it.

"Please?" The burning sensation of tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. Hermione did not want to beg, but it was not beyond her. The thought of being alone with a complete stranger horrified her – especially someone specialized to bring up and drag over and pick at memories that she only wanted to forget.

Ron began to walk quickly towards the door, forgetting all about the dinner plate. He mumbled a quick, body-crushing, "Maybe."

The intense pressure of the situation soon left him after Ron had fled down the stairs and into the easy companionship of Gus.

---

Heather McDowell arrived promptly at eleven o'clock. Seamus Finnigan did not. In fact, it would be nearly an hour before Seamus would knock on Ron's door. During that time, Heather was welcomed in curtly and shown to Hermione's room. She smiled and addressed them both by, "Mr. Weasley," and "Ms. Granger," respectively. She was the epitome of professionalism.

Ron, needless to say, was annoyed.

"Mr. Weasley," Heather smiled, clapping her hands together. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave again." The apology was written blatantly across her face.

Ron cast a quick, furtive glance over to Hermione. She was sitting rigid in bed, her hands laid smoothly across her lap. Her eyes fluttered shut as she swallowed. He could tell she was shaking.

"I don't think I-" he began.

"Go," Hermione told him. She did not look up.

"Really? Because you – " he sputtered.

"_Go_."

Ron nodded and slammed the door shut behind him. He had been preparing himself for the ordeal since Hermione had asked him to. He had gone over numerous situations – how Hermione would cry into his shoulder, how he would have to ask Heather to leave, how he could handle the situation from there. Now all of it was dashed. He felt like a fool for having considered her request to be plausible.

Not twenty minutes later, as Ron sat dejectedly at the bottom of the steps next to Gus, he heard sobs. They were not the quiet ones he had forced himself to ignore most nights, but chest-heaving, heartbreaking bawling. He could hear Hermione scream and pound against the wall. He also listened to Heather's stern, authoritative voice over Hermione's pleas. His hands bundled into fists that sat hard on his knees.

Ron sat through half an hour of Heather's examination. Though scorned, he would not move. He had no idea what Heather was doing, except she was acting under the pretenses of helping. Nothing that came from Hermione's bedroom sounded like healing. It made his insides burn.

Soon enough, Seamus appeared as a child in a school uniform on his doorstep. After he crossed the threshold of the home, Seamus grew and stretched until he looked like his normal self – stocky, neat, and clean-shaven. He clasped Ron's hand heartily with a grim look. "Sounds like an awful ruckus you've got here, mate," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the staircase.

Ron shrugged. He did not have enough energy to make a joke out of it. The sooner everything had been dealt with, the sooner he would have his flat back.

The men stood awkwardly in the hall for several minutes, pretending not to hear the loud antics taking place above them. Ron finally offered his guest a coffee and thankfully, Seamus accepted gratefully. They then stood silently in the kitchen, shuffling their feet and staring at the dark cracks in the floor.

"Seems to have calmed a bit," Seamus noted, his head lolling back to watch the ceiling. His insides restricted as he spoke – he didn't know if Ron would criticize him for such an unneeded observation or simply shrug in agreement again. Seamus was not a man who feared many things – he dealt with a wide range of things like victims and villains and grieving widows – but how to deal with an estranged friend was not his strong suit.

"How come you sent her, mate?" Ron asked, his brow furrowing. He felt the need to be civil towards Seamus, seeing as how he was the only _mate_ he had at the moment. A full throttle interrogation would put a mighty rift in their tender bond.

"Y'mean McDowell up there?" Seamus sipped his coffee, relaxing visibly. When he saw Ron nod curtly, he answered, "Wasn't my decision. Bosses thought Hermione fit to be interrogated, but it didn't sit right with St. Mungos – they wanted a preliminary before we could do anything. McDowell only consented to my being here on the strict condition she would be able see Hermione before me." He swallowed with a grimace. "Every time from here on out, in fact."

"But why McDowell? Why not someone else?" Ron pressed, agitation rising in his throat. He wanted to know everything in those few, demanding seconds.

"Why not?" Seamus asked. "She was the best one – got her degree in that rubbish, I guess – no one else wanted to take Hermione. It was labeled as an Exclusive case. It wasn't exactly open to the public, if you get my drift."

Ron sagged under the weight of the knowledge. He didn't trust – or like – Heather McDowell very much. Something about her being alone with Hermione worried him. Perhaps it was the fear that Hermione could once again become self-sufficient, that she could walk right out the front door on her own accord and never look back again, that he would never see her again. Heather was slowly drawing Hermione away from him.

Not that he wanted her, but it still made him angry.

"So there's no hope of getting another shrink in here?" he asked in a deadpan voice.

Seamus almost laughed, puzzled by Ron's questions. "I really doubt it. Why?"

"No reason," Ron grumbled as the very bane of his existence appeared in the kitchen doorframe. Like always, she was smiling.

"Seamus!" Heather exclaimed, sounding absolutely delighted to see him. She shook his hand and patted his shoulder. "How nice to see you again."

Seamus reciprocated the feelings justly and then turned the conversation to Hermione – the one element that connected the trio. "How's the patient?"

"Great," Heather bobbed her head, her gleaming black hair flying past her ears. "She's resting at the moment. Would you possibly mind waiting a bit before going upstairs? I gave her a calming draught about ten minutes ago."

Seamus wheeled to look at her, his coffee cup forgotten on the counter. "You drugged her up?"

"No, I didn't _drug her up_. I gave her the correct dosage for someone who's been through a great deal of trauma. Yes, she's a little groggy, but it should wear off soon," Heather retorted, obviously not expecting such a comment from him.

Seamus diverted his attention fully to her, a stern look crossing his strong face. Did she know what administering drugs to an interviewee could do to their credibility? Obviously not, or she would've consulted him or not done it at all. "How much did you give her?" he snapped.

Ron leaned against the sink and watched with a tiny amount of amusement, his cup warm in his grasp.

"One-fourth of a standard issue bottle!" Heather snapped back, a hand on her hip. "Why are you so upset?"

"The validity of my report is at stake! This is the one chance I get in two months to be here and I don't want to blow it. Can you understand that?" Seamus asked, feeling the heat crawling up his neck. He knew anger would come quickly and took a few deep breaths.

"It is a calming draught," Heather impressed on him, "and nothing more. I promise that I will notarize the interview before I leave. That will give you all the credit you need."

Seamus scoffed at Heather's assumption that she held the authority in the situation - that her lousy signature at the bottom of his official report would automatically make it reliable to the Heads of the department. "That is _if_ I let you in on the interview," he corrected her scathingly.

"Of course you will," Heather acted taken aback by the mere question of her involvement. "I am _Head Healer_."

"Doesn't do a damn thing for me," Seamus snapped. "Just another thing I have to verify and log."

"Fine," Heather replied in a scathing voice, her arms now crossed tightly across her chest. "Do whatever you please, Seamus, but just be warned that I will be going to your superiors with this information."

"What information?" Seamus exclaimed, throwing out his arms.

"That you knowingly and deliberately dismissed your own patient's doctor on terms of personal bias," Heather bit, smiling faintly.

"Fine! You can stay!" Seamus yelled, "Bleeding Jesus, Heather, worm your way in with threats of tattletale-ing!"

"Tattletale!" Heather balked, taking a step forward.

"Hey!" Ron shouted, finally stepping in between the two. Each looked ready to strangle the other. Seamus' face was red, Heather's blushing. "Calm down," he ordered.

"Fine," Seamus growled, turning away from the confrontation. No wonder Ron had asked for a new shrink – Heather McDowell was a real bother when she wanted to be. Luckily they didn't work together. She would probably worm her way into his paper anyhow. He just needed to let the heat recede.

Heather simply looked over Ron's shoulder at nothing in particular, visibly miffed.

"Now," Ron began again in a rough, authoritative tone, "I'm going to go check on her and I'll let you know when she's ready. There's more coffee in the pot. Stop bickering, for Merlin's sake."

With that, Ron left the room. He overhead Heather retort, "I'm a _doctor_. My opinion would only lend credit to you. I'm only_ trying_ to help."

"You're only trying to be a pain in the ass," Seamus' words echoed through the hallway faintly, leaving Ron with a smile.

He knocked on the door hesitantly, conjuring up the images of Hermione shrieking as she had done before, knocked into a corner and covered with blood. He braced himself to see the scene played out again as a voice called wearily, "Come in."

Much to his comfort – the extent of it, anyway – Hermione was laying down. She was unnaturally pale and shaking, but her eyes were open and her mouth was breathing. She watched him beneath heavy lids.

Ron moved to sit down in the chair that had been pulled close to her bed. He crossed his leg over his knee and leaned forward, entirely engrossed by her. It was a subconscious thing – the way he studied the curve of her cheekbones and the shadow caused by the plumpness of her chewed lower lip – something he could not help in the least. It only lasted a few seconds, but enough to unsettle the both of them.

"How are you?" his voice sounded strange in his ears. He felt awkward all over again. It was just something Hermione did to him.

She didn't move or speak for a while. Instead she sighed, blinked, and mumbled a, "Fine."

"Okay," his head bobbed uncontrollably. "Are you still tired?" He felt his pulse quicken beneath the skin in his neck.

"A little," her voice was filled with hints of sleep, assuring him of the truth in her statement. "I'll be fine soon."

Truth be told, Hermione felt drained to her very core. Her mind was clogged with memories that she had tried so hard in the past month to repress. They sprung up like wildfire behind her eyes. She spent her time desperately wishing them away and when she found she could not – Healer McDowell had pointed this fact out very bluntly – Hermione began the process of a complete breakdown. Every ounce of strength had been stolen away with her dissipating refusal to come to terms with what had happened. McDowell had grilled her for facts and feelings and faces, writing whatever she could grasp down on that fucking clipboard with that simpering smile plastered on her mouth. She didn't care – not really. Hermione could tell.

Hermione let her eyes slide close, facing the most haunting remembrance of them all. It was like a movie in her own personal hell. She watched as a spectator of her own torture. She observed herself hanging from that damned cell wall – the sickening way her head lolled back and forth against her chest – and Agent Nash yelling and spitting and swearing and bearing down upon her with his wand like a knife at her throat.

She gasped and jerked and then Ron's hand was on her hand, stroking it slowly. Her hot skin appreciated the coolness of his own. He avoided the fresh bruises that were just forming, as she had beat her fists against anything she could find only an hour before.

"Are you ready to do this?" Ron asked quietly, sternly. He stopped his caress, but his grip was still as firm as ever. "Because I swear to God, if you break down again, you are going to punch a hole in my wall and I am not going to be the one to fix it. So you'd better tell me this moment if you want a break from all this." His hands were shaking.

Tears sprang to her eyes and she squeezed them shut, her mouth contorting into a sad frown. A few gasps escaped before Hermione could grasp any words at all. "I have to," it came out in a whisper. "No one will ever leave me alone if I don't."

Ron did not want to discuss the topic any further. He wanted to leave, to drink, to sleep. It had already destroyed him enough to touch her. It was a little trick he had remembered from Before – that Hermione needed to be grabbed when she worked herself up in her mental spats, as it was a reminder that she was still grounded. It brought back how it had been when he had been allowed to touch her whenever and wherever he wanted to, not just to comfort her.

"I'll let you rest for a moment and then I'll bring Seamus and Heather up," Ron leaned back, letting his hand fall back to his lap. It was tingling.

"Heather?" Hermione nearly choked on her name. "No – please, don't let her stay."

"Not my choice," Ron grumbled, offering a slight sympathy.

The tears began to flow. Hermione turned her head and was silent. Ron exited to the hallway where he buried his hands in his hair and tried to forget about the way her voice sounded in his ears, the way her skin felt against his, the way his lower belly was hot and agitated. This was exactly why he wanted to avoid her.

Merlin, he was such a hypocrite. He didn't want her to walk away, but he didn't want to face her. He didn't want to love her, but he still wanted her to love him. He was a selfish, stubborn coward. Just admitting that made him feel like an ass. He quickly dispelled the notion – she would just have to wait until he was ready and able. That would be that.

It took him a while to muster up his former attitude before he fetched his guests – who were in a terse silence only interrupted by lashing comments – and brought them into Hermione's bedroom. While Seamus drew his chair farther away from her bed and began setting up his Exact-Speak Recording quill, Ron conjured two others for himself and Heather. They sat against the wall, away from the intimate scene that Seamus was trying to create. He wanted Hermione to trust him – they had been childhood friends and schoolmates – and could not do that with other strangers invading the conversation.

"How're you?" was the first question that popped out of his mouth. The quill and parchment sitting on the table scribbled madly and then lay quiet.

Hermione managed a smile. Seamus had changed so much since the last time she had seen him. He had hair three years ago, but a slightly receding hairline. She guessed it had receded a little too much for his taste and he had shaved it off to save himself the embarrassment. His face was sturdy, his neck thick, and his shoulders broad, but his eyes still sparkled the way they used to. She felt more at ease. She could see only him.

"I'm fine," she croaked, clearing her throat. "How about you? How has The Order been?"

"Good," he laughed, "I've been through a few promotions, as you can see."

Hermione gestured to the emblem stitched onto his robes. "High rank you've got there – you could almost be a Head."

"That requires a couple more years of ass-kissing," Seamus growled with a grin. The smile seemed to break his face in half; it was so large and genuine. When Hermione cast a quick glance as the scrawling quill, Seamus assured her, "Don't worry, I'm going to revise the transcript before it goes anywhere."

This seemed to placate Hermione and the worried expression slipped from her features. She took a few calming breaths and that revived her some.

"Alright," Seamus became more professional, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. "Let's begin."

"Okay," Hermione answered in an equally strong voice, surprising everyone in the room including herself.

"This is Seamus Patrick Finnigan, second in command of the Department of Internal Intelligence under the lead of Head Benjamin Greenscomb of the organization The Order of the Phoenix. I am conducting an interview with one Ms. Hermione Jane Granger on the premise of intelligence collection on passing events relating to the organization only known to us at the present moment as The Shop. Ms. Granger was serving as an undercover against for The Order beginning July the fifteenth of three years ago until last known date November the thirtieth of last year. Last transmission to Official Headquarters was dated November the second of last year. The purpose of this interview is to follow up any extraneous facts that may be crucial to the knowledge about The Shop. The date is Monday, May 24th."

Hermione listened to the preliminaries and found her stomach was tying itself in knots.

"Ms. Granger," as he would refer to her throughout the course of the dialogue, "for the purposes of this meeting, would you please inform me of why it is there is such a large gap of time between the termination of your mission and this interview?"

Hermione swallowed and found that her voice was weak. "Um," she began, unsteady and unnerved, "my position was compromised – I was scheduled to leave the satellite colony on November eighteenth and return to The Order through a portkey. Agent Shale found my transmissions and detained me for several weeks, as I am informed. I have little recollection of time frame, but after my initial imprisonment I am told that I was kept for three weeks. During that time I experienced a great amount of torture and was expected to die."

Heather leaned forward in her seat, her eyes gleaming and unblinking. Ron, who sat next to her, swallowed very uncomfortably. Neither of them spoke.

Tears threatened to fall, but Hermione knew that if she just kept her rigid manner that everything would be kept in check. She could act professional – it was just like old times – and it soothed her a little. Seamus allowed her a moment to collect herself.

Hermione cleared her throat again and wiped her nose. "Excuse me," she blushed, but continued, "I am told that I was found deserted and unconscious. The lack of communication on my part is due to the fact I remained in a coma like state for several months, because of the severity of the injuries I sustained."

Seamus nodded and mouthed the word, 'good.' It did not help her that much.

"Now, I know this may be hard for you, Ms. Granger, but I need you to answer the following questions to best of your ability. I need to ask about the missing three weeks that you were in the main camp."

Hermione's insides curdled – hadn't she endured enough with McDowell?

Ron was thinking the exact same thing. His face was turning red.

"Do remember how you moved from the satellite colony to the chief faction? Let me note that The Shop has one central location somewhere in Northern Europe and several satellite colonies across Europe and remote parts of Asia. Ms. Granger habited one in the outskirts Ipatovo, Russia."

Hermione was shaking. "I was put under the Imperius Curse and blindfolded, then made to board a train that took me to the central camp. It took hours to reach and I think we headed north."

Seamus nodded, watching the quill dance instead of Hermione's face shutter among so many emotions.

"What happened when you reached the base?"

She felt cold all over, even her legs were twitching. She remembered the small, dank walls she lived in. She remembered the awful stench of rotting bodies and vomit. "I was put in detainment."

Seamus hesitated, but asked, "Can you be more specific?"

"I have no idea where the Detainment Center was. I was put in small cell in a basement. I never saw anything else." Her voice was faint and everyone had to strain to hear.

"Who did you come in contact with?"

"Only two people – both agents of The Shop."

"Do you recall their names?"

Her heart burned and her tongue was sluggish in her mouth. One of them had been her friend – the closest thing she had to a lover since Ron – and it seared into her mind. "Yes," was all she could manage.

Ron and Heather watched her struggle. Heather found it absolutely fascinating, knowing nothing more about the case than what she had been informed of in the past two weeks. A first-hand experience was intriguing. Ron, on the other hand, burned right alongside Hermione. All he could do was watch her squirm and that made him tight and uneasy.

"For the record," Seamus coaxed her, "could you please name the two agents?"

"Agent John Rivers and Agent Theodore Ryker," as Hermione thrust the names off her tongue, she began to cry.

"Do you remember any experiences within the Detainment Center – anything that could have compromised your position or The Order's integrity? Or perhaps something that would give any clues as to where the base operations of The Shop are? What they were planning at the time?"

Hermione remembered the first time Ted had entered the cell. He was a tall man, handsome, with a deep voice that interested her when they met. He had walked in wearing red robes and a hood covering most of his face. His mouth was drawn into a thin, pressed line. She had been sitting in the cell for a day and a half with nothing and felt relieved to see him. Maybe he would understand – they were friends, after all.

Ted had not understood. All he knew was that Eleanor Crumley was a traitor and a spy. He had never even known her real name – just another false front. Eleanor – Hermione, whatever her name was – had conned him from the beginning. He would show no mercy.

"I can't," Hermione whimpered, turning her face away. "I can't."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Granger, but if you know something, you must share it with me. Everything you say will be kept extremely confidential." Seamus hurt for her, but was not allowed to express it the way a friend should.

Ron curled his fingers underneath the seat of his chair painfully.

"But I _can't_," Hermione moaned, finally looking him fully in the eyes. She tried to convey how extreme her situation had been – that is was nearly impossible for her to force the memories into words. "Please, I can't say."

"You have to try," Seamus pressed lightly, sincerely. "Please, Ms. Granger, any little thing will help. Do you remember your first days?"

Everyone was silent as Seamus let Hermione sob for a while. Her face twisted and contorted until she covered it with her tiny, swollen hands.

"I didn't eat for three days," she choked, still crying, "There were no windows and no doors. Whenever they wanted to come, they would separate the bricks. There were shackles hanging against the wall – for arms and for legs." Her stomach rolled like the tide and she gagged. Wouldn't someone help her? Even now, wouldn't someone stop this torture?

Ron?

"Tell me about the first time you and the agents were together. Did they tell you anything? Do anything specific that was abnormal?"

"He ripped off my clothes the first time," she shuddered, all of a sudden remembering the smoothness of the stones beneath her thighs. Many nights she had spent thinknig she would freeze to death. She surely would have thrown up if her stomach hadn't been empty already.

Seamus cleared his throat when Hermione didn't continue. "Who did? Can you specify which agent?"

"Ted did!" she screamed. God, it was so hard to get the words out. "He beat me! That was abnormal, right? A man I thought I knew, a man I thought I could trust beat me until I couldn't even open my eyes!"

Hermione dissolved into wracking sobs.

"Maybe you should stop," Ron growled from his seat. He was trembling. He no longer wanted to hear what happened to her during her absence. He had wished this kind of punishment on her before and now he was getting his sick wish.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley," Seamus said in a commanding voice, "but I have to ask you to please remain quiet during the interview. I know this is hard and your full cooperation is well appreciated."

It took all of him just to sit back in his seat. Hermione wouldn't look at him.

"Ms. Granger, are you ready to continue?" Seamus asked with trepidation.

Could she really answer that question?

Minutes passed, though Hermione's crying did not cease. Seamus cleared his throat again. "Please, Ms. Granger, I understand this is hard, but we have to finish. Please, continue."

"Ted beat me the next day. He beat me every day. He broke my bones just to heal them and break them again," she was shaking so badly she couldn't see straight. She could feel the phantom pains in her legs and arms and fingers, just as fresh as it had been in the cell. "I never even got to sleep – some kind of spell. They used a lot of spells."

"Spells?" Seamus inquired, "Any new or reformed spells?"

"John," she gagged, having to stop. John had been the worst. He enjoyed her screams, fed off the blood that flowed from her broken body. John Rivers had no soul. "John is a master sorcerer. He combined Confringo and Flagrante and Defodio." She spit to rid her mouth of the terrible taste. She felt dizzy, almost unable to finish. "It would explode on impact with flesh, dig in to the bone, and burn everything in its path."

Hermione had to stop. She swore she felt it in her belly. That sickening moment of collision, it felt like someone had held up a lighter and slowly watched her skin burn away until there was nothing left. She couldn't breathe, watching the light slowly fade from her in front of her eyes. She doubled over, clutching at her arms. She was back in the cell. She was waiting to die again.

"This ends now," Ron barked, standing up so suddenly his chair fell over. Seamus whipped around.

"Mr. Weasley, take your seat," he snapped.

"No," Ron snarled. He crossed the room and hauled Seamus up by his arms. "It is time for you to go. She needs to rest."

Seamus fought him off. "This is extremely improper, Weasley!" he shouted, fending off Ron's grabbing hands. "Leave immediately!"

"Guys!" Heather shouted, shocked. She was standing behind her chair, using it as protection. She was ignored.

"You don't tell me what to do in my own fucking house," Ron roared, slamming a fist into the side of Seamus' taught face. The man reeled back and stumbled over his chair, sending them both to the ground. "It's pretty apparent that she can't do this interview."

"Don't tell me how to do my job!" Seamus yelled, launching himself to his feet. Before he could think of fighting back, Ron had grabbed him by the robes and was dragging him out the door.

"Now listen to me," Ron snarled into Seamus' face. "You are either going to leave this house now, or I will trash you until you beg to go. Don't think I won't do any different."

Seamus shoved off Ron's hold on him roughly, sending them both stumbling. "Weasley, you really messed this up. I barely got anything out of this – nothing I can put in the report. I tried to be as gentle as I could, but this is the way interrogations go. People cry. Next time I show up, you will not be anywhere _near_ this house." He shoved Ron again and started for the stairs. "And don't think I'm not going to report you."

"Toss off," he retorted. Ron turned and heard the loud slam of the door. It shook the glass in the windows even on the second floor.

Heather was standing timidly just inside the bedroom. There was a look of terror on her face.

"Get out of here," he growled. Without a word, Heather brushed past him and out of sight. She was then forgotten.

Hermione was limp. Her breathing was shallow, but she was still crying pathetically.

Ron crossed the room in a few purposeful strides. He sat on the edge of the bed and had no idea what to do. He wanted to comfort her, but knew it would probably wouldn't be a good idea. He felt awkward and frantic, unsure of what to say. His hands were shaking.

"Hold me," she whispered, unable to open her eyes and face him. "Please," she begged quietly, "Please just forget that you hate me for a few minutes. Hold me." She was so exhausted that she couldn't move.

It was all Ron could do not to shake with the sheer intensity of the moment. He reached out and smoothed her matted hair. He brushed it away from her burning scalp with long, deliberate fingers. His mind was foggy, but he nudged further onto the mattress, legs spread out in front of him, and pulled her wilted frame into the v between his legs. She was just an overgrown doll – just bones beneath papery skin. It was heartbreaking and maddening at the same time. He was stiff and unsure, but he held her as best he could.

Hermione shivered beneath his touch, the skin on her arms crawling when he wrapped his own around her shoulders protectively. It felt like heaven, if only he really wanted to hold her and not just oblige her. If only it were affection and not pity. But Hermione was content with what she had in that moment. Her forehead was pressed into his craggy skin. He smelled like that darn dog.

* * *

**A/N: **I really hope you liked it! I took me forever to get through, but it's one of my favorite chapters :) Let me know if you have any suggestions or comments or questions!

Have a great weekend and leave a review!!!

Katie


	12. The Score

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys, another regular Wednesday update! This one is kind of long as well. I want to THANK YOU guys so much for reviewing my story - it's given me a lot of help. Specifically the annonymous reviewer who left me a message along the lines of "the interrogation was stupid, why not use a pensieve?" The thought of using a pensieve had never crossed my mind before that and I realized how much easier that could make everything - as well as interesting. So part of this chapter is dedicated to whoever left that review. :) Thanks!

* * *

Ron had slipped from the room a few hours after the ordeal had calmed. Hermione had quickly, albeit cautiously, fallen asleep. Her breath on his neck had tapered and warmed, her eyelids fluttered swiftly down. It tickled his skin, making a sickly shiver crawl through him. His arms had shifted to rest more comfortably around her thin waist. Ron rested his cheek on the top of her head.

He wanted this so badly, but it could never be. He would never let himself purposely feel that way about Hermione again. It was wrong. Leaving someone for two years was immoral, illegal, sinful. Every time he looked at her, watched her smile, gazed in her heavy eyes, all of those profoundly wicked emotions welled at his surface. They were as fresh as the first day he encountered them.

Ron inhaled her worn, dusty scent – he took away with him all her fear and falter – and laid her gently on the warm pillow he had been resting against. He heaved a great sigh, knowing that once he stepped out of the room all of the rest of the world would come rushing back to sit thickly on his shoulders. He would be reported, he would be disciplined, and he would be none the better from it. Smoothing the blanket that lay across Hermione's shoulders, Ron quietly wished her a happy sleep. Then, he went downstairs to start dinner for Gus.

---

Two days later, Ron received multiple letters in the post. As he leafed through them, shocked at the sudden influx in correspondence, he came upon a rather large one with a red Order seal embossed on the back. He decided it would be best if that was the first one read.

_To Mr. Ronald B. Weasley,_

_This is a letter on The Order's behalf informing you of the complaint filed against you by one Mr. Seamus P. Finnigan. Said complain was issued on Monday at 5:09 p.m. on the subject of your inability to cooperate with Mr. Finnegan's interview techniques. Mr. Finnigan has decided not to press any further objections. However, due to your long-standing record, The Order cannot overlook such an infraction. Please consider this your one and only warning on the matter. _

_-Snr. Hd. Ralph McKinney_

Ron sat back in his chair, tossing the letter to the ground. He stroked Gus' head and then rubbed his eyes. He did not expect any of his other mail to be any better.

_Weasley,_

_This letter is a compromise. I've spoken with some colleagues at The Order and they've agreed to loan out a pensieve for Hermione's memories. It'll be painless – can't believe we didn't think of it before. Have her pluck it out and put it in, no questions asked. The bowl will be sent in a couple of days and hopefully you'll return it quickly. _

_As for you, mate, I have no idea what the fuck to do with you. Honestly, you drive everyone who tries to help absolutely mad. Wish you wouldn't. Gave McDowell an awful fright – won't say a word of it to anyone, lucky for you. Here's your part of the deal: get over it. Just ask her what happened – it'll make a lot more sense once you know – trust me. Don't go poking around in her pensieve, either._

_Ginny says hello. She's been stopping by my office quite often. Says she misses you and all that bloody trash._

_-Seamus_

Ron's brow furrowed. _Trust me, _the letter read; _it'll make a lot more sense once you know. _His fingers tightened around the paper. Did Seamus know something? Did Seamus know why she left him so suddenly? Did _everyone else know_ and it was only him left in the dark all these years?

Ron tore the letter into shreds furiously. "Damnit!" he screamed, rising so suddenly that Gus skittered away from him, his ears pressed against his head. "_Damnit!_" His vision grew hazy and narrow. Rage sprung to life in his chest and like wildfire, spread through his arms, neck, legs, and head. No connective, decipherable thought ran through his mind – simply the notion that he would burst if he did nothing.

Heat seared through his arms and burned his hands. Ron swung them blindly and beat them against the wall. He managed to punch quite a few holes into the slim boards, ignoring the splinters and bloody knuckles. He could hear himself breathing in his ears, feel the fast pumping of hot blood in his veins, practically taste bitter hate sitting fat in his mouth.

"That son of a bitch," Ron's teeth were clenched terribly. "That son of a goddamn _bitch_!" He had so much energy and nothing to do, he felt like he was crazy. Dangerous thoughts surged through him, clawing to get out, skimming beneath his skin.

Ron had to know.

He threw himself up the stairs, slamming his feet down hard upon the wood, hoping to break them. The bedroom door was closed, so he slammed his hand – palm forward – against the wood painfully and gained entrance.

Hermione awoke with a jolt. She had been resting until dinner, not expecting to hear a word from Ron all day. That was the way things had become since the Ordeal had passed.

"You tell me!" Ron screamed with every ounce of air in his lungs. He swerved to tower over Hermione, his finger pointed directly in her face. "You tell me now!"

"Tell you what?" Hermione responded quickly, shocked.

"Did you tell Seamus?" Ron shouted, burning from the inside out.

"Tell Seamus what?" Hermione begged. Her heart was beating erratically. This was going to go very badly, she could tell already.

"Where you went _when you left_!" he shrieked in reply. Sweat was pouring from his forehead, from his chest, from his arms. Could he not escape the torment? "You never thought of telling me – the one who really cared about you – but you thought of going off and telling that prick your travel plans? Did you write him, too? Send him your apologies for not making the Holidays?"

"No!" Hermione cried, backing herself up against the wall. "You don't understand!"

Ron leaned closer, one knee already on the mattress. "Then enlighten me," he barked between his teeth. His jaw was aching horribly, but it didn't register at the moment. His anger was turning into morbid fascination, curiosity. Finally, _finally_, he was going to get his answers.

Tears welled on the rims of her eyes. This was the part that hurt the most, even now. It was the moment she had ached to explain. The decision wasn't hers – if only Ron knew all along.

"I couldn't tell you when I left," she whispered, looking him the eyes. His were narrow, harsh, and livid. His long, drawn face was a vibrant red. His chapped lips had curled around his teeth. Though he look almost animalistic, Hermione saw the man she had left behind. His freckles still remained, along with his copper hair and big ears. Even his fingers, hands, arms were the same, albeit withered.

Ron scoffed viciously in her face, shaking his head. "Bullshit," he countered.

"It's true! You know that The Order doesn't like to publicize mission dates. This one was big, Ron, really big."

"Bullshit," Ron countered again. Fury was once again growing impatiently in his stomach. He wanted answers, not excuses. "Bullshit!" he barked.

Ron flew at Hermione. While she flinched, terrified, he pinned her against the wall. His fingers dug harshly into the frail skin on her shoulders. The tears began to fall in heavy streams. She didn't want to be touched. His face came within inches of hers.

"You tell me the truth this time," he demanded.

"Fine!" her voice failed, coming out as a coarse whisper. "Anything you want, okay? Fine!"

"Start talking."

Hermione began to sob, but Ron did not relent. She hiccupped, but began. "I didn't tell Seamus, but he knew. He was one of the coordinators of the plan. I couldn't tell anyone where or when I was leaving and he couldn't either. It was part of the rules, no one wanted the mission compromised."

She began to shiver and shake, her tears staining the top of her pajamas. She managed to blink through her tears, breathing deeply, and saw Ron's face. He was searching her face, trying to collect all the things she wasn't saying. It made her want to bawl all over again. This really was her fault. She had ruined everything for him.

"They made me go. I didn't have a choice – it was a long-term assignment, they wanted a female - I was a perfect candidate, Ron. It's not like we didn't leave each other before for those kinds of things. Sometimes for months, even. I thought it would be just like that!" she pleaded, hoping that he would see the sincerity behind her words.

Hermione had thought upon taking the mission that it would only last a few weeks. That was the way those things worked. No agent was kept in one place for long. However, this was not the case for The Shop.

"Even the Order didn't know when I'd go," Hermione appealed, "I was abducted. That was part of the initiation into The Shop. Part of their secrecy."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" he snarled into her scared, wet face. His fingers dug further into her skin. He was sure he felt bone.

Hermione's face contorted into one of pain. "Yes!" she struggled to get the words out. "I'm being completely honest; you've got to believe me. I went to the market and I never came home, right?"

Ron nodded curtly.

"Someone pushed me into a portkey while I was just about to Floo home, I swear. I never saw it coming."

"And you never thought to write me? Send me any kind of batshit message to let me know that you were okay?" Ron fumed. "I thought you were dead. I thought someone took you away. I thought that you left me because I was too boring, too mediocre, not good enough for the likes of you." His eyebrows furrowed and his face was inches away from hers. "I thought you were never coming back."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, unable to look at him fully. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Are you really?" Ron pushed her delicate frame harder against the wall.

"I wanted to write you every day!" Hermione cried out from pain and grief. "Please, Ron, you know that I wouldn't do that to you. I wanted to come home and be with you. I would've given anything to. It broke my heart when The Order told me I was staying.

But you know that I couldn't talk to you, no matter how much I wanted. That's the way it always is. The Order wouldn't send any messages. My letters could have been kidnapped, read, and I might never have the chance to make it home. I figured this was better than nothing. I would rather deal with you now than not at all." With her last words, Hermione dissolved back into tears again. Her limp hand went to rest on his forearm, craving the touch of his skin.

"All I ever wanted was to be with you."

Ron did not withdraw his arm. Her hand was cool and relaxed his taught muscles. He could not move at all. He could not speak.

Hermione whimpered pathetically, her chin resting against her chest. She had said all that she was able to. It was his time now.

Ron felt cheated. It hadn't really been her fault at all. It hadn't been anyone's. There was no one to be angry at, no one to exact his revenge from. All that he was left with was a great pile of hatred that could not be spent. He felt heavy all over. His regret piled on him until he could no longer stay rigid and cross. Everything that had crossed his mind in those two years had all been in vain.

His arms collapsed at his sides. He backed away from Hermione, who was watching him with wild, scared eyes. She had wanted him all along. He had never expected such an answer.

Shifting off the bed, eyes still tiredly focused on hers, Ron's mouth opened and closed. He was unable to draw up any words to express his thoughts, probably because there were too many clawing to get out at once.

"Ron?" Hermione asked timidly, letting her shoulders relax. It was a slow process, for she feared he might leap back at a moment's notice.

He turned sluggishly and left the room without a word. He did not bring her dinner. He did not come to turn out the light. He did not say goodnight. He did nothing.

---

Four days later, Ron opened the rusty screen door in the back of his flat and called for Gus. He had let the dog out over an hour ago and only now remembering to bring the old mutt back in. A warm burst of wind met his cheeks and took him by surprise. June had slowly fallen upon Lawrence, bringing with it eye-blinding sunshine and a playground smothered with small children in the community yard. Gus had been playing with a few of the younger locals who were reluctant to give him back.

Smiling, Ron called for his dog and was obliged. Gus bumped the screen on his hasty way inside. A sound that could only be described as metal-on-metal tinged the air. Ron watched the dog curiously as it made its way arthritically up the stairs. Gus turned and revealed a small bowl clutched in his taught jowls.

"What on earth," Ron sighed, tugging the silver basin from his dog's purchase. It was heavy – like stone – but gave the appearance of steel. He examined it thoroughly and found runes traced on the sides and on the bottom a small inscription. _Property of The Order of the Phoenix. Confidential. 38294. _He turned his attention back to where Gus was standing, but found only empty space. The dog had wandered off in search of a view of the birds.

Hermione was surprised to hear a knock on the door just a few minutes after she heard the faint slam of a door downstairs. She had never been downstairs, but that was beside the point. Ron had never knocked before.

"Come in," her voice faltered. She put away her book and pulled herself up to a sitting position. Her legs worked themselves into a crossed position. Lately, she had been trying to build up precious muscle all by herself, seeing as how Ron would not touch her voluntarily. She didn't want him to now, anyway. He had made himself very clear that night.

Ron walked in with stiff joints. He handed her the metallic bowl and left silently. Hermione watched him leave, expecting a remark before he hit the door. None came.

She examined the object, wondering what it was. She read the message on the bottom, running her fingers over the tiny grooves it left. When she reached the number code, her hand began to shake inexplicably. Before she could shout for help, there was a flash of blue light and a wand was clutched in her frail grasp moments after.

It took a minute, but Hermione realized the wand as her own – her old one, her familiar one – and felt content. She also knew the basin's purpose and felt more relieved than she had in a long while. She didn't have to talk about it anymore, assuming that Heather McDowell wasn't coming back. She hoped Ron would keep her away.

Her reprieve from her problems continued when she touched her wand carefully to her head and felt a warming sensation crawl around her skin. The sick ache that seemed to fester behind her visage alleviated while she watched ghostly strands of memory slither across the air, led on by the wooden tip of her wand. Hermione heaved a sigh of relief when all of it hovered like a cloud above the bowl. She touched the bottom and the wisps sunk effortlessly.

_There, _she thought with a hint of a smile on her mouth. _Done._

The pensieve sat on her bedside until a deep red horizon filled the sky. Yellows and oranges filled the room and lulled her into a deep, wonderful sleep. Ron was able to walk in and pick up the basin without hesitation. He did, however, stop before his hand touched the pensieve to glance at her.

_All I ever wanted was to be with you. _

Did she really? Or was it just another lie to placate him? Ron wrapped his hands around the bowl and took it downstairs. He went to his bedroom and locked the door behind him, for some unknown, paranoid reason. His heart was skipping. Ron knew what he was about to do was illegal, but he honestly didn't care.

Ron set the pensieve on his own bedside table and sat on the lumpy mattress. His hands were knotted together. He was preparing to work up the courage to finally delve into the mystery he had given up on so long ago. He stared at the gleaming gray until he could no longer control himself. He held his face close over the bowl and felt a pull on his shoulders. The pensieve soon engulfed him.

_Ron was standing in the corner of a small, cramped office. Shelves lined the walls, books and files and extraneous papers popping out haphazardly. He managed to find his way out of the mess and soon was standing behind a woman. Her brown hair reached past her waist, curling and twisting exotically. _

_"…I guess I can't turn it down," she sighed. Her shoulders slumped. "Are you absolutely sure Francesca can't?"_

_"Positive." A stocky man stood behind the desk the woman was in front of. Ron recognized the voice, but not his face. His jaw was extremely square and he had a pronounced – almost beaklike – nose. "I'm sorry I have to do this to you, Hermione, but we can't find anyone else this late. The spot is bound to close up in a week."_

_"Alright," Hermione sighed again. She looked up. "I'll do it for you, Viktor."_

_Viktor?_

_The man who was supposedly Viktor Krum smiled and showed a row of straight, yellowed teeth. "I really appreciate this, you know that? It's a big assignment and I wouldn't trust it to just anyone."_

_"How long?"_

_"What?" he asked, his brow furrowing. This assured Ron that the man was Viktor. Krum had dropped out of existence during the war. Ron had figured him for a spineless wanker – he had no idea Viktor had gone undercover. Nothing really surprised him anymore, though. He took the information in stride, slightly uneasy. _

_"How long will it last? I can't be gone that long," he could almost hear a smile in her voice._

_"No more than two months," Krum answered promptly, handing her forms. "That's a promise."_

_Hermione took them and turned to leave. Ron smiled at her, but she looked blankly through him. In fact, her head spun around and she said quickly, "It'd better be."_

There was a sick feeling in the pit of Ron's stomach before the scene he was in began to swirl and disconnect. He was launched into another memory soon after.

_Ron was standing in a hovel of sorts. There were desks set up messily in row and they were vacant. The only people left in the basement were a woman and man. Ron recognized Hermione immediately. She had cut her hair and grown pale, but still remained relatively the same._

_"Ellie," the man said, his hand on her arm. "What's wrong?"_

_Hermione brushed his embrace off tenderly, hesitantly. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked, a pleading look on her face._

_"Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?" the man smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up sharply. He was tall and thin, but his forearms were roped with muscle. His dark blonde hair shimmered eerily beneath the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling._

_"Ted," the name sprung out of her mouth warily. _

_So this was Ted. This was the Ted that was soon to beat her. Ron felt anger rising in his chest, though he knew he could not do a thing to stop the scene. He couldn't do a thing to that bastard. _

_"Ellie," Ted sidled up to her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer. They were inches apart._

_Hermione glanced into his eyes; her focus stuck on his face, and couldn't seem to turn away. However, her whispered reply was, "I can't."_

_"Yes, you can. Whoever was waiting for you at home isn't waiting anymore. You've been here quite a while. The line has broken and you're free, Ellie. You and I can be together. We can keep it secret from Agent Skillen and the other Heads, I promise." Ted pulled her closer still, until he was practically breathing down on her._

_Hermione put her hands on his chest. Ron's fists clenched, but he remained a safe distance away. "Ted, you just don't understand. I can't just let the past go – there was too much riding on it. I'm going to find him again someday."_

_"But what about the here and now? We're miserable without each other, Ellie, and you can't deny that. Even if it's just for a day, I'll be happy," Ted gripped her shoulders, his face the perfect image of hope. _

_Don't, please don't, Ron pleaded. Don't mess this up. Don't let everything be wrong._

_Hermione glanced down. "No." She shook her head furiously as tears sprang to her cheeks. "I'm very sorry, Ted, but I can't."_

_Ted lowered his face and kissed her harshly. Ron took a few impatient steps forward until he was a few feet away. His fists were raised. Hermione made a muffled sound and pushed him away, crying. Ron watched as she ran towards the darkened exit, Ted's eyes close on her back._

The picture blurred and Ron's shoulders were grasped again. He was almost thankful for it. He settled down in another view instantly.

_Ron was surrounded by a shocking black and a disgusting, rancid smell. He backed up, scared, and hit a moist, stone wall. He could figure out where he was. _

_A piercing shriek came from across the way as the stones next to his shoulder collapsed and vanished in a steady pace. Ron took a few steps away from the wall and watched with morbid fascination as a tall, cloaked figure stepped through the now-apparent passageway. He was dressed in deep red robes. With him, he brought a spectral light that filled the room, even as the stones began to close up again._

_"No!" Hermione's voice cried. "Don't! Please, Ted, just go away!"_

_Ron jerked around and saw her. Hermione had her wrists shackled above her head and to the wall on the opposite side of the room. She was stark naked and painted only with the drying crusts of her own blood and blooms of bruises._

_Ted did not say a word. He drew a wand from deep inside his robes. He flicked it towards her, muttering, "Defodio."_

_A long, harsh gash cut its way across her stomach. Blood welled in the wound and sickly trickled its way down her legs. Ron felt the need to vomit. He was trembling and wanted to turn away. He found he could not._

_"Unless you want another," his voice was deep and deadpan, "I suggest you offer up the information I've been asking you about for three days now. This is getting tiring and I'd rather just end your life than keep it up."_

_Hermione began to sob. "I promise," she wheezed, "I promise I've told you everything I know."_

_"Who are you working for?" he snapped, crossing the space between them. His wand was pointed to her neck. "Answer," he hissed._

_"No one," she choked on her own words. "I came here on my own agenda."_

_"Liar," Ted seethed. "Flagrante."_

_The skin on her collarbone began to redden and blister horribly. Hermione howled in pain._

_Ron reached out to touch her. He wanted to smooth her hair, run his palm against her cheek, and tell her it would be okay. She was tough; she was going to make it through this. He would help if only he could._

_"That's," she managed from behind clenched teeth, "the truth! I swear to God it is."_

_"So you expect me to believe you came here to infiltrate the largest organization of Death Eaters by yourself? With no assistance at all? That you just up and left your husband and family to fulfill a fucking whim?"_

_The blisters began to ooze and pop. The salt of Hermione's tears burned them even more. "Yes," she swallowed, staring him hard in the eye. _

_Ron watched the rounds of torture continue for what seemed like ages. By the time he was pulled from the location, Ron had curled into himself on the floor. He could hardly bear to listen to the interrogation. He wished he had never delved into this mess – he would have been much better off with his goddamned grudge. His eyes were wet and his muscles sore. He flinched every time he heard Hermione scream in pain. Eventually, she had passed out and Ted had left her still in shackles. _

It was hard for Ron to stop shaking once he had exited the pensieve. He would not go back again, ever. Trembling, he sat back down on the mattress, holding his head in his hands. The room seemed to sway before his eyes. Ron went to stand up, to do something, to take his mind off what had just occurred, but vomited instead.

He then saw black and nothing else. He was unconscious by the time he hit the floor.

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**A/N: **Hoped you guys liked it! Things are really moving along and I'm really liking where this story is going. Thanks again to everyone who read this. :) Have a great rest of the week!

Also, leave me a review!

Katie


	13. Risk

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys! I'm updating on time again. :) Anyway, THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed and told me what they thought. A lot of it was really helpful in forming the way the rest of the story is going to go. In response to Bonnie Radcliffe: what I wanted to say was that Ted was the only man _close_ to being romantically linked to Hermione since she left Ron - he never really earned her full affection. And to Kashrlyyk: the Order would, of course, want frequent updates on Hermione's position, but they probably wouldn't let her send letters to anyone. It just wouldn't be safe - more correspondance means a greater chance of discovery.

ANYWAY, be forewarned that this chapter isn't as exciting as the others. I wanted to focus on Hermione and Ron's relationship in the present and how it has evolved since her arrival in this chapter. However, if you're not much into the mushy-gushy, the next couple of chapters are going to be very interesting. :):) ENJOY!

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Ron found that he could not look Hermione in the eye any longer. When he would walk into her bedroom, his nostrils would fill with the precocious odor of metal, though he knew no such thing existed in the flat. There was something about her now that hadn't been apparent before – maybe it was the slow clearing of her innocence that did it – Ron could no longer hold his previous anger at such readiness. He felt like a part of him had vanished. That fact became almost tangible in her presence and it was unbearable, like his left leg was missing.

Ron kept mostly to the downstairs couch with a mug of ale in his slack hand. Gus would visit occasionally, but his stays became less frequent and shorter in length. The dog preferred to lay at the edge of Hermione's bed, either sleeping or watching for birds out the windows. He found it terribly boring at Ron's side. All his master did was watch the fire flicker in front of him and occasionally mumble to himself about the 'unfairness of it all.'

A whole week was spent without a single conversation. Not a 'good morning,' or a 'here's your dinner,' or a 'stop yelling, I'm here,' was spoken on Ron's part. Hermione, however, not being privy to his excursion into her past memory, tried speaking with her counterpart daily. She would smile and thank him after carrying her to the bathroom or bringing her lunch, but nothing would budge his stony demeanor.

A whole Saturday passed without any sign of Ron and Hermione began to become perturbed. She had only told him the truth. She hadn't known any other way to express herself – it was impossible to argue her point. Trying to fight a way to understanding was only going to make him worse. Becoming upset would only show him that she thought he was wrong or mislead, and that was something Ron would not face. However, Hermione had let Ron settle in his anger long enough. She had taken him fully for granted for too long. It was time she began doing things on her own terms.

Drawing up her strength – or that of which she could – Hermione picked up her seemingly sedentary legs and swung them onto the side of the bed. She almost cringed when she saw the white, almost transparent, quality of her skin and the bulging, purple veins running in tiny rivers beneath it. No wonder Ron wouldn't spare her even a glance. She was almost a skeleton, despite the fact she had been eating well and exercising the best she could.

Hermione groped underneath her matted pillow until her fingers grazed over her wand. She grinned involuntarily, feeling a wonderful rush of content sweep through her. She had purposely neglected to inform Ron of her newly acquired independence. Regaining her wand was the first step out of Ron Weasley's house and back into the life she had left behind. Her fingers shook when they grasped the handle, fitting perfectly into the worn grooves created years ago. Tiny slivers of magic crept their way up her arm.

Her mind groped over simple spells – calming, sleeping, focusing, relaxing, and many others. Hermione would only attempt the easiest, knowing in her condition one too large might kill her. "_Recreo_," she said forcefully, pointing her wand at her immobile legs. It was a simple strengthening charm.

Hermione instantly lost her breath and felt her chest caving in. Her energy seemed to rush downwards. Her legs twitched painfully. She watched with wide eyes as the skin darkened and the surface veins receded. Hesitantly and trying to catch her breath, Hermione ran her shaking palms smoothly over the skin and was pleased.

She decided to wait a few minutes before attempting to hoist herself up. Hermione drew the table next to her and determined it to be a sufficient height.

It felt weird, heavy, and awkward to be standing again. Her ankles were screaming as Hermione swayed sharply to the left and right. Her center of balance kept wandering. Hermione furrowed her brow as she tried to steady herself. It took a couple of minutes, but she was able to catch gravity correctly. It was a small accomplishment, but her frustrated smile conveyed more than a petty feat.

As she swung her leg out to take her first step, Hermione wondered how something so regular – so normal – could be so hard. It had only been seven months of inactivity and balance was balance, no matter the time. The fact annoyed her more than anything.

She stumbled, of course, upon shifting her slight weight. Again her whole body rocked with insecurity. Her knees began to shake and buckle beneath her. Her feet were only inches apart, but it seemed like oceans. Hermione swore in her mind and gripped the side of the table with white fingers. Her head was clear, but tired.

Hermione forced her feet to join together again, only further away from the safety of her bed. She knew it was a matter of time before she fell. There was a rug not far away that would soften the landing, but it would require at least two more well-placed steps. Hermione forced her weight forward and with it her leg. She landed funny on the side of her foot and fell forward, shrieking. Hermione threw out her arms and absorbed most of the fall with her palms.

Hermione rolled over on her back, moaning. The rug was near enough to touch. The wood floors were hard against her slim hips and shoulders, providing no relief no matter which way she turned. She relaxed and felt the coldness of the floor seep into her arms. She went to twist her hand through her hair and yelped again as a stinging sensation tinged her wrist. She could barely move it.

Relaxing, her mind teemed over solutions, as it was so apt to do. She could pull herself up, but she couldn't go anywhere. Her backside smarted and crawling was out of the question with a bum wrist. She could wait until Ron came to her rescue, but she guessed that wouldn't be for hours.

Luckily, not two moments later, Hermione picked up the sound of thunder outside her door. Ron pushed the door aside, his eyes surveying the room darkly. Whenever there was a commotion from Hermione, it always meant something bad – or so he had learned to expect. His eyes ran over her swiftly, but paused and came back. Surprise overtook his features.

"Are you alright?" he blurted, before the anger hit his belly. Ron took a few steps forward when he saw that Hermione wasn't moving to get up.

"Yes," she answered, gripping her wrist with her good hand. "I just fell."

"What're you doing out of bed?" he wanted to know, coming to her side. Ron helped her to sit up. He scooped her into his arms, just as he would when she wanted to go to the loo. She felt heavier somehow, but he pushed the notion aside. The touch of her skin was making him uneasy.

Hermione's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She folded her arms into each other as best she could. "I was trying to walk."

"Why?" he wanted to know, laying her down on the bed. Why would she be walking? He was confused. "I thought you couldn't."

"I can't, obviously," Hermione snapped softly, her eyes turned away. She wasn't trying to be curt on purpose, but her failure burned deeply. She couldn't do a single thing without his help.

"Sorry," Ron snapped back, stepping away from her. As his arms fell at his sides, he accidentally nudged Hermione's arms. She muffled a sore cry. "You hurt?"

"A little," she answered, glancing up at him. The fire that was usually present in his eyes was gone, replaced with nothing. They were only sad, now. She cradled her wrist to her chest protectively, feeling a shiver run down her spine.

"Let me see," Ron ordered in a low, but soft tone of voice. He was a bit concerned, but his real reason for the command was so that she wouldn't complain later of a phantom ache. His anger could be gone, but not his bitterness.

Hermione turned away, her mortification still digging deeply into the crevices of her mind. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

Ron's face was hard. "Let me see your wrist."

"I'm fine."

Ron's hand touched her upper arm and grazed its way to her wrist. Her skin was warm to the touch, making him feel weird inside. He watched as Hermione winced under his fingers. "Your wrist," he observed.

"It's nothing."

However, Hermione let Ron unfold her arms and take her hurt wrist into his hands. She noticed for the first time a sickeningly large lump under the joint of her thumb. Her mouth twisted to lock in the cry that was about to escape. He didn't dare touch it. Instead, Ron held his finger over it and muttered, "_Sanescere_."

The pressure that had wrapped itself around her wrist began to alleviate instantly. Hermione watched in amazement as the lump lowered itself back into her skin. Ron backed away, feeling slightly pleased with himself. He was still the caregiver.

"Thank you," Hermione told him in a gentle voice. She began to extract her hand away, flexing her fingers and rotating the joints. Ron's hand was still on her elbow. That fact alone made her pulse leap.

Ron seemed lost behind clouded eyes, but soon realized his mistake. His fingers relished the feel of her and didn't want to leave. It took a small effort to draw himself away, make himself hard again. He cleared his throat as he watched Hermione tuck herself back under the covers. "I'll probably have to report this, you know."

"Really?" Hermione asked, her eyes flying up to see if it was the truth. Her thoughts raced to Heather and Seamus, the Order officials, paperwork, visits, crying, yelling. She chided herself for something so stupid. Of course she couldn't walk – look where she had landed herself because of it.

Ron was taken aback by the abruptness of her question. He scratched the back of his head and leaned to the side, trying to look casual, though he was slightly confused. "Yeah, I have to do lot when you get hurt."

"Do you really have to?" Hermione pleaded, trying not to look too desperate. She would try to dissuade Ron from writing the letter to Seamus, who would probably send Heather, who would probably give him hell about it and want to interrogate her some more. Her sessions were brutal and very unwanted. "Seriously?"

Ron shrugged, drawing up a chair. He sat uncomfortably, not really wanting to be with her. "Yeah, that's what Seamus wanted." He brushed imaginary dust from his trousers, before raising an eyebrow and peeking out at her. "Why?"

Hermione sighed and stared at the ceiling. It was now or never. Heather could keep coming back with her torturous rounds of 'therapy' or Hermione could put her foot down. She had been helpless long enough. "Would that report go to Healer McDowell, by any chance?"

It took him a moment to respond, but Ron eventually answered, "Probably. She's in charge of those bits." Hermione still wouldn't look at him, her eyes kept darting about on the ceiling and walls. "Is there something the matter?" he asked sharply.

Hermione drew up her shoulders and rounded on him. Her voice was still very raspy, but it held enough power that made Ron listen. "I don't like her. I don't want her to be my Healer anymore."

Ron slid back in his chair, both eyebrows raised now. "Oh, really," he answered in an interested voice. He crossed his arms. "And why is that? Heather may be a bit of a bug, but she's been with you for quite a while."

"Not that long," Hermione replied, "and I hardly know her. I don't trust her. I don't like her."

"It doesn't matter if you like her or not," Ron retorted. He didn't like McDowell either, but she was the Healer. Ron didn't have that much control of that kind of thing. He was just hospice. The thought burned into his head. "She's your doctor and that's that."

"No," Hermione said, "I should be able to confide in my doctor." She looked down, afraid of being snapped at. She was treading on dangerous territory and she knew it, but it wasn't something she was going to give up on. She had done that too much already with Ron.

Ron watched her for a few minutes. Her restless quality came back and she stretched and sighed and looked about listlessly. There was something much deeper hidden behind her initial words, he knew it. He almost wanted to smile as he recognized Hermione's stubborn streak returning. It was like a connection to the past and very nearly soothed him.

"Is that it? Because you can't tell her your deepest, darkest secrets? Because she's not your best friend? That's why you don't want her around?" Ron asked, leaning forward, his chin resting on his fists.

Hermione turned away from his gaze, reddening. "No, of course that's not why."

"Then what?" Ron was genuinely interested.

Hermione's voice was faint when she answered, "She's cruel to me."

"_Cruel to you?_ What does that mean?"

Hermione rubbed her arms and sighed again. She glanced over at Ron and saw curiosity blazoned across his face. She was slightly relieved to find that he wasn't disgusted with her request and that assured her to go on. "Well, she… she… she makes you leave me and then asks disgusting questions. Questions that no Healer should need to know the answer to, things that have nothing to do with what happened to me or the mission. She says she's only trying to help, but her 'sessions' make me feel sick."

Ron digested the information slowly. Heather was very headstrong – that much was apparent – but could she really have the capacity to be cruel? She had told him before that therapy sessions would require work and tolerance, that they probably wouldn't be received by Hermione with open arms. Wasn't therapy supposed to be emotional? He had no idea and that left him swaying between the extremes.

Hermione rubbed her temples. She knew she would have to further her explanation to make Ron understand. "Heather would talk to me about the dark arts, ask me how John Rivers conjured up so-and-so spell. She would ask how the dark power made me feel. She would talk about Agent Skillen and Agent Nash as if they weren't the terrible men– undermined my fears of them." She shivered, "It may have been a ploy to make me realize the irrationality of my panic, but it didn't help at all."

Ron's mouth was pressed into a line, a crease on his forehead. His doubts about Heather were beginning to deepen.

Hermione continued, wrapping her arms around her frame. She felt the phantom pain in her wrist and winced. "She wasn't mean about anything really, but she was cold to me. It felt like she didn't care, just as long as she got what she needed. She asked more about the people and places than my feelings. I just want to talk to someone who really cares." She glanced up with tired eyes. "You know?" she asked meekly.

Ron scratched the back of his neck again, trying to draw out the pressure from the situation. He cared, no matter how much he didn't want to admit it. If only she could talk to him, but did he really want to hear it?

When Ron didn't answer, Hermione continued. "She asked a lot about Ted."

"That guy," Ron retorted evenly. "That guy you stayed with."

"I didn't stay with him," Hermione snapped back, not realizing the hurt in her words. "We were friends, or I thought we were. No one really liked each other there, anyway."

Ron stayed silent.

Hermione shook her head, her hair tickling the sides of her cheeks. She pictured Heather's stony demeanor in her last private visit. She never smiled or sympathized, only frowned. "She asked a lot about that, too. Who I was friends with, who knew me, who I knew about. I know it was probably just Order business – tying up loose ends and that lot – but she didn't act very nice. It was all business."

Ron pursed his lips again. His mind was whirring, catching and missing, pitting one woman's words against the others. He was more inclined to lean towards Hermione's version, even after all these years.

He nodded. "Well," he sighed, putting his hands on his knees and leaning forward. "Something has obviously got to change."

Hermione almost smiled with relief. He had believed her. It was a triumph in itself. She allowed the next few minutes for Ron's deliberation.

"Do you really think that giving up on McDowell would solve this?" he asked fairly.

Hermione shrugged, but she knew the answer. She never wanted to see Heather McDowell again. "Maybe if someone else came? Someone I knew?" Or even liked?

Ron shook his head. "The Order doesn't want anyone else visiting. Too many people attracts attention."

Hermione ducked her head, but felt content welling in her. She was going to get her way for the first time in a long time.

Ron sighed. He moved the chair forward and looked at her squarely. "Are you sure about this?"

Hermione matched his gaze, something steely shining in her eyes. She touched his hand, her fingers wrapping tightly around his palm. "Yes," she whispered fiercely.

Ron did not ask about it ever again.

Their gaze did not break until Hermione blinked and turned her head. She slipped her hand out of his and pulled the covers up on her lap. She didn't speak, her victory still fresh in her heart. If she opened her mouth she feared that she might laugh with delight. That would only plant doubt of her sincerity in Ron's mind.

After the initial shock of Ron's verdict, Hermione felt tired. The stress of the afternoon had taken its toll on her body. Her legs pounded and her lungs felt heavy. Her eyelids began to waver unintentionally.

"Is your wrist alright?" Ron asked in a low, gentle voice. He was still very close to her.

Her neck jerked up, honestly astonished that he would ask something like that. It was almost like he cared. If only. She held out her hand. "It still feels a little weird."

Ron nodded and quietly conjured up a strengthening poultice from his workshop below. He watched Hermione slip beneath the covers, he observed her hair splay out against the stark white of her pillow, he noticed how her blinks became longer and more deliberate. He set the cold concoction against her wrist, moving the limb itself to rest on her stomach.

"There," he murmured, focusing on the correct and effective position of the wrap. He wanted it to work, for her to be okay. It was a strange feeling that made his fingers shake.

Then, he felt warm fingers against his cheek. His eyes darted to Hermione's face. It was relaxed and serene, like she was already dreaming. He was very unsure of what to do – so very much so that he couldn't move, turn away. Instead, he swallowed his nervousness and felt it slide down anxiously into his belly.

Hermione's fingers ran smoothly over his stubble, against the strong curve of his jaw, on the curve of his mouth. She twisted some strands of his red hair between her fingers. It was surprisingly soft. She had noticed that he had been growing it out – due to laziness or on purpose, she could not determine – though she hardly cared.

"Thank you," she sighed sleepily. Her fingers trailed over his face and down the lean bend of his neck. She had to let him know her appreciation – it was a great accomplishment – and he was owed much of the credit. She didn't know how things would turn out, but Ron was hardheaded enough to make sure that Heather wouldn't come back. Her hand trailed down his shoulder and found comfort resting against his own hand. Her eyes closed as she drew his hand up to her lips and kissed it.

Ron tugged his arm away, but Hermione didn't mind. She was getting what she wanted. Ron was finally on her side.

Ron left the room quickly. He was jittery and upset, unsure. It seemed he would never escape that feeling.

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**A/N: **Did you like it?? I feel like Ron has pretty much given up on being angry at Hermione -- that he's more ashamed of himself than anything else. However, that doesn't mean he's just going to go back to the way things were. :)

Let me know if you have any questions, thoughts, or suggestions in a review!! Have a great rest of the week, everyone. :)

Katie


	14. Exposure

**Disclaimer: **Don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys! Back for another update. :) THANK YOU all so much for the reviews last week... I'm glad the last chapter didn't bomb. And just to clear up some confusion, Hermione kissed Ron's hand, not the other way around. 

Anyway, this is quite a long chapter and I had a GREAT time writing it. The action is picking up. :) Enjoy!

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There was a sharp rap of knuckles across the steel frame of the flat's front door very early on Tuesday morning. It fell on sleeping ears, though Ron lay not thirty feet from the entryway. The second woke him slowly; the third whack had him on his feet, scrambling for his shirt. He cursed the humid June weather as he wiped the sweat from his brow into his hair and started for the door.

"What?" he snapped, squinting in the harsh morning sunlight that crept over the apartment buildings across the empty street. What would anyone want with him?

"You don't need to talk to me like that," a hard, feminine voice snapped.

"McDowell?" Ron's eyes began to adjust to the change in lighting as his surprise grew. He had written a letter of dismissal the previous afternoon. Had she not received it in time? "What're you doing here?"

"Wanting to know why you thought it was alright to relieve me of my services to my client." Heather's face was pinched and red, her brow furrowed in a deep line. Ron could tell that the meeting was not going to go well.

Heather began to enter the home, but was rebuffed by Ron's arm that shot out and gripped the other side of the doorframe. She stood back, nostrils flaring, and folded her arms tightly.

"Well?" she bit. "Or are you too hung over to answer?"

Ron's mood went sour very quickly. "I'm sorry, did you just come here to bitch at me or get answers? Because you can't do both." He crossed his arms as well, his rough palms smoothing their way across his freckled, pale skin. 

Heather turned around, her hands to her temples, and took a few steps down the stairs. She muttered a couple of sentences that Ron could not hear. It took a minute, but eventually she turned back again. Her face was still tight, but her mouth was trying to curve into an impatient smile. "I didn't understand your letter last night and I woke this morning and I still couldn't figure it out. Just as I was making progress, you let me go – Hermione didn't even write the damn thing." Her arms flung out and her voice rose.

Ron sighed, his weight leaning against the doorframe heavily. "I don't agree with your assessment of your visits as 'progress,' and neither did Hermione. I wrote that letter on her behalf, if you're questioning the validity of it. It's not that you're a bad doctor, but Hermione found it better to deal with her situation on her own," he told her, wishing very much that he was back in bed again.

"_Deal with the situation on her own_?" Heather shouted, not realizing the volume of her voice. "Do you know how ridiculous that sounds to me? By going it alone, she is facing massive trauma to her future self, including nightmares, erratic sleeping and eating patterns, and possibly complete mental and physical breakdowns. She _needs_ my help."

"This is completely inappropriate," Ron snapped, suddenly filled with anger by her pretentiousness. Who was she to pound down his door and demand her way back into his flat? She had her own agenda and was obviously not willing to listen to reason. "Do you know that your display right now is compromising my home?"

"Do you think I care?" Heather seethed.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Ron retorted with a clenched jaw. "I suggest you get off my doorstep at once, or I'll have to ask the Order to move you."

Heather ran her tongue over her teeth. "You are going to be sorry that you let me go. I am the only chance Hermione has at a normal life. You think you can help her?" she scoffed, "Think again, Ron. You're nothing but a hardheaded, self-righteous, lovesick prick. You need her ten times the amount she needs you."

"Get the fuck away from my house," Ron spat. He clutched the door with white fingers and slammed it in Heather's face. It banged shut with a reassuring thump. 

"You'll regret this," Heather shrieked and kicked the door. Ron peeked through the curtain, his pulse leaping, and watched as she hurried down the stairs and out into the street. She vanished not a moment later. She really could jeopardize his hideaway with shit stunts like that. He hoped he couldn't be receiving a letter about it later in the day.

---

Gus wandered into the study with a yellowed piece of parchment tucked delicately between his teeth. He poked around the sofa and empty wooden chairs in search of his master. The information he carried was about Heather McDowell, but not her outburst on that morning. The dog trotted around the downstairs and then upstairs when his search was fruitless. He found Ron waiting outside the loo for Hermione to finish. He scratched at his master's bare feet.

Ron reached down and plucked the letter from Gus' grasp with a large sigh. "Great," he muttered, expecting the worst. He unfolded the paper and saw the Order insignia inscribed on the top. 

_From the Office of Mr. Seamus P. Finnigan._

_Weasley,_

_I need you to stop by the Order today to 'discuss' your dismissal of Hlr. Heather McDowell. You had better come with a damn good explanation. Ginny will be stopping by with a portkey to take your place._

_-Seamus_

"Ron?" Hermione's voice called from inside the bathroom.

"Just a second," Ron barked, rolling the paper into a ball. It wasn't his fault McDowell went mad on his front stoop this morning – why was he always the one getting in trouble? He had done nothing wrong. He closed his eyes and rubbed his lids with terse fingers.

The bathroom door's handle moved jerkily to the left. Ron's fingers pulled down to his cheeks and he watched as the door opened slightly, revealing a small portion of Hermione's frame. She was stooped, gripping the handle like the Holy Grail, and quivering.

Her smile was radiant. "Look!" she said happily, "Progress."

"Whatever," Ron answered flippantly. He swooped forward and tucked her into his arms. Hermione went a bit reluctantly, miffed that her minor accomplishment went unnoticed. He carried her to her room and set her on the bed. 

"Fine," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

Ron was sick of crossing arms and grew a bit sour at the gesture. He huffed as he crossed the room, but turned and asked awkwardly, "Feel like company?"

Hermione's eyes flew to him, her brow raised in curiosity. He actually wanted to spend time with her? This was a first. "Yes," she replied hesitatingly.

"Ginny will be over soon," he answered, and then left the room.

Hermione was left baffled, her brain unable to process the sentence all at once. No, Ron was not deliberately seeking her company. Though he seemed gentler now, more willing to bend to her requests, he still shied away from conversation. He was not the best with words; even back before this all began. 

However, in his place would be… Ginny? Had she heard him right? Ginny Weasley – his own sister and her friend – would be over to visit. Hermione's heart leaped at the thought, but realized it may not happen. Ron's cruel sense of humor had waned almost completely out of existence – he hardly joked at all now – but he still held the capacity to hurt. He knew that Hermione wanted, more than anything, to start reconnecting with family and friends and her life outside the dirty apartment in suburban Lawrence. 

Hermione tried to rest, her head lying heavily on the pillow. It was a schedule she was instructed to follow – nap at least four times a day – and she hated it. She became hyperaware of her surroundings as images of Ginny's arrival played in her head. She could hear her breath in her lungs, her clothes rustling under the sheets, her hair settling against her pillow. She hoped that Ron would stay true to his statement.

---

"Thanks again, Gin," Ron muttered, kissing the top of his sister's forehead. He straightened the collar of his good robes, the starch fabric irritating his skin.

Ginny smiled, her hands trembling. She was very excited to walk up the stairs and set eyes on Hermione – so very much so that she found Ron almost an annoyance. "You go on," she laughed, patting his arm, "and tell Seamus I said hello. He's been awfully good to me lately, figured I'd repay him by watching after your place for a while."

"You're always hanging around Finnigan's office," Ron grumbled, raising a wary eye to her. He didn't find it suspicious in the least, but he did think it rather exasperating. Like all of his connections found it funny to meet up and have a laugh over his expense. If he dismissed one person, then all his other mates would know by the end of the day.

"He likes to look at me file things," Ginny retorted playfully, pushing him towards the door. 

Ron's head turned sharply, a look of disgust on his face. He was only half-joking with the expression. He didn't like the image that put in his mind – Seamus' eyes on the back of Ginny's legs as she leaned over to fetch a stack of papers for him. 

This made Ginny giggle more. Eventually, she wormed him towards the table next to the door. On it was sitting an empty flowerpot. She whirled around the moment he disappeared, practically flying towards the staircase.

---

It was strange being around so many people. It was irksome to have his personal space reduced to almost zero – zigzagging about just to make it a few feet. Most of them hardly cared that he made the effort at all. All Ron wanted to do was to make it to Seamus' office, but the journey alone took him half an hour. He arrived in the fireplace of a small lobby in quite a huff, receiving several unwanted stares.

He brushed passed an unruly looking woman who was watching him unabashedly and set himself directly in front of reception. The witch behind the counter gave him a short, curt smile and then went back to looking over her files.

"I'm here for Finnigan," Ron growled, his fingers aching to curl into a fist. 

"Alright," the receptionist answered passively. "Please have a seat and I'll let him know you're here."

"I have to wait to talk to that wanker?" Ron balked, very much taken aback. The only person he would wait for was the Minister himself – not Seamus. 

"Excuse me!" the woman snapped, her eyes turning steely. "Please, take a seat."

"I don't think so," Ron answered just as gently, walking towards the hallway behind her desk. The day was already sour enough; he wasn't going to wait for it to worsen. 

Ron was halfway down the hallway when he heard the sharp ring of the witch's voice, "You can't go back there! I'm calling patrol!"

Ron shrugged off and began searching the hallway for the sign with Seamus' name on it. He walked past several paper-cluttered offices before finding the correct one. The door was closed, but there was a small window and Ron could see his friend working diligently behind a desk of his own. His fingers closed around the knob, tightening smartly, and took a deep breath.

"Hey," Seamus greeted when he heard the click of the latch and creak of the hinges. Ron looked extremely cantankerous. His hair had grown to a normal length and his robes had been pressed, however, giving him the semblance of normality. It brought a smile to Seamus' stern face to see his mate more like himself. "Sit down, you look cranky."

"We might be getting more visitors in a moment, so I best not take a seat right now," Ron sighed, leaning against the wall. 

Seamus raised a thick eyebrow, but decided not to question. Instead, he pushed aside the stack of papers and set his elbows on the hard wood of the desk. He rubbed a hand over his lined face and looked up, ready to take on business. Ron could see dark circles under his eyes, giving him a sunken appearance. 

"You look pretty cross yourself, mate," Ron nudged his chin toward him. 

The two mean appreciated how petulant the other was, reveling in how dark their previous days had been. It was a silence that bonded them in an odd way. The quiet also allowed Ron to clear out his mind, prepare his argument, and relax his taught leg muscles. His knees felt better as he decided to sink into the chair before the desk. 

"Am I here about McDowell's performance on my front step this morning?" Ron asked, his back slumping comfortably. "Because I swear to God that wasn't my fault."

Seamus looked surprised. "I haven't heard a thing from Heather since yesterday afternoon. Burst into my office and said something in a huff and left. I think she requested a few days off. She hasn't been back to work yet, not that I know of."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Well, she showed up at my place this morning, screaming at me."

Seamus chuckled softly. Heather was a very headstrong person – not unlike Ron himself – her temper very quick. He had many times been under her duress. "Bet that was a riot."

"Made a fuss right on my doorstep! I sent her away on the spot."

Seamus' mouth pressed into a line. "Did anyone see her?" his voice was firm.

Ron shook his head, folding his hands on his belly. "She came early in the morning. The street was empty."

Seamus' worry faded a bit, but something stuck in the pit of his stomach. "Good."

"Merlin, what a loony."

Both men erupted in laughter that was long overdue. 

---

The late afternoon sun hazed through the open windows. The light caught in Ginny's hair and sparkled. Hermione hadn't seen her in years and she looked more beautiful than ever. She was envious of her, but the emotion was overrun by an influx of gratefulness and surprise. They had been chatting a while over a whole spectrum of topics – family, friends, love, loss. Hermione learned that Bill and Fleur had four children, that Hagrid was making a name for himself at Hogwarts, that George had shut down his joke shop and moved someplace quiet and alone, that Harry was due home in three months. All of the news filled her heart and made her fingers tingle. 

Ginny swept a stray lock of hair off her forehead and said, "And he says this may be the last time in a while, but I don't believe him. He always says that and then he's gone by the next morning."

She was still on the subject of Harry. Hermione listened to every word, hungry for any information on him. She hadn't seen him in four years and it seemed neither had Ginny. "I'm sure he tries, right?" her voice was full and clear. 

Ginny shrugged, a pouty look on her features. "I'm sure he does."

Hermione allowed a moment of quiet, before moving on. "Are you married?"

"No," her answer was soft and sad. Hermione regretted asking immediately. For such a strong woman, Ginny was so easily wounded when it came to relationships. She had tried dating others, but found connections weak and incomparable to Harry's. He had been her first true love and perhaps her last – she was still a fairytale believer even at twenty years old.

"But we might someday," her voice was quiet as she moved her hand in front of her eyes to fix her hair again. 'Someday' was a word she used often. 

Hermione smiled, slightly relieved to know she wasn't the only one left with problems that seemed unsolvable. Part of the world she was privy to was still the same and it left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. She closed a small hand over Ginny's unsettled one. 

---

Seamus had sat back in his chair lazily by the time the conversation rolled back around to the real reason he had called on Ron to visit him. It had taken a while, but he allowed the time to Ron, because the poor bloke hadn't spoken to anyone amicably in probably a year. He was glad to see his friend wind down and forget his troubles, talking about being behind on Quidditch news and who won the Cup that year. He chattered on about his dog and his cooking – it was a little sad.

Seamus scratched the back of his head as the discourse moved towards Ginny. He found it a good time to bring up Heather.

"Gin's really glad to be there," Ron cleared his throat into his fist, summing up his sentence. He wanted to discuss Ginny, her words about Seamus watching her still itching in the back of his mind. "I reckon Hermione is too."

"Probably happier to look at a better mug than yours," Seamus joked.

Ron laughed good-naturedly, not realizing that he hadn't laughed this much in forever. It felt good – like a hole inside him was slowly being filled again. "I'm glad you sent Ginny and not McDowell. Good God, that woman had bad attitude at the ready."

Seamus sat up a bit straighter, glad it was Ron who said her name. "Speaking of Good Healer Heather…"

"No," Ron groaned, regretting the topic. "What do I have to say that you don't already know?" He glanced at the clock hanging haphazardly on the wall and realized that he had been there all afternoon. Six o'clock was already upon them. He hoped Ginny wouldn't mind.

"Why?" Seamus asked simply, stretching himself across his desk. He was trying to pal around, not upset his guest. If Ron even suspected he was fishing, bad things could happen. "I mean, Hermione really wanted her out? I just can't see that happening."

Ron's mouth loped off to one side. "I can – McDowell is a bitch sometimes, you know? I know you do. Hermione didn't exactly put it that way, but she bothered her something fierce. She said Heather asked a lot of nosey questions."

"Isn't that what therapists do?" Seamus smiled.

Ron shrugged, "I s'pose, but Hermione said she didn't ask questions… questions that were… relevant, you know? Like – these are her words, not mine – Heather would ask about her contacts. Acted really cold when she did it, too. Wanted to know all about who she knew, instead of what she felt."

A twinge of uncertainty started in Seamus' belly and festered for a while. Heather made strict reports of her activity everyday and left them no later than seven o'clock on Seamus' desk. If information collecting was what she was doing during her sessions with Granger, then he didn't know a thing about it. He had sent out a memo stating that those things were to be put down upon the arrival of her pensieve. Had she gone behind his back? Or was Ron just stretching the truth to protect Hermione's delicate state? He decided to remain silent.

Ron again shrugged, trying to rid himself of his dislike for McDowell. "I dunno – it's just what Hermione told me. I figured I'd rather have McDowell mad and never speak to her again than have to face Hermione angry every day."

Seamus managed a laugh – he understood. He had also believed the letter when he read it, just as he believed Ron's words now. 

---

At eight, Ginny went downstairs to make dinner for three. She figured Ron would be home in the next half-hour or so and wasn't worried in the least. He deserved a day out, even if it was to Headquarters. If Seamus decided to take him out for a beer – which Seamus was heavily inclined to do with his late night clients – she would simply stick the meal in the fridge for him later. He was a good cook, but she was better.

Hermione was upstairs taking a rest while Ginny hummed beneath her in the kitchen. The stove was on and the pan on it was sizzling. She was making a complicated recipe to impress her brother and friend, it absorbed most of her attention. She grew hot as she darted about and decided to rest and open the window above the sink. Warm air wafted through and soothed her brow. She heard rustling and smiled, thinking it was the kids across the community yard playing hide-and-seek. She smoothed her hair away from her face and turned back to her preparations.

The rustling continued, but she barely noticed.

The plates were almost filled with food, despite the fact meat still hissed on the stovetop. Ginny was pouring drinks when there was a sharp snap from behind her. Whirling around, Ginny's heartbeat quickened. She wasn't used to Ron's flat and was unsure of whether it was her brother being quiet or something more sinister.

"Ron?" her voice was shaky. Ginny inched her way towards the doorway. There was no reason to fear her own brother, was there?

There was no reply, only close, heavy footsteps.

"Ron?" Ginny asked a bit louder, trying to inject her voice with faulty confidence. 

A man appeared in the doorframe, only feet away from her, but it was not Ron. Ginny sucked in her breath and darted across the kitchen to the furthest corner. She groped for her wand, but it wasn't tucked into her skirt like she thought. While she turned to run, a thick hand reached out and grabbed her upper arm tightly.

The man walked her into the middle of the bright, cramped room. The light was directly over his head, providing Ginny with an excellent view of his face. It was long and taught, accented with a cleft chin and clean, side-swept hair. His eyes were slates of green, his nose straight and menacing. Though his mouth was full and wide, his lips were pressed tightly together. He was dressed in blood red robes and obviously he did not bother with his hood.

Ginny shrieked mercilessly, scratching and clawing her way out of his grasp. Her attempts did not work – the hand refused to move. It hurt, the way the fingers dug into her skin. She didn't stop fighting, however. She kicked and screamed and hurled her fist at her captor.

"Eleanor!" the man hissed, grabbing her other arm tightly. "Shut up! It's me."

"Who the fuck is Eleanor?" Ginny screamed, tears running hot down her cheeks. "Let go of me!"

The man's face darkened and he forcefully backed her up against the kitchen wall. Ginny hit it with a bang, her head smacking against the plaster roughly. "Eleanor Crumley!" he barked, his face dangerously close to hers.

"I'm not Eleanor!" Ginny shouted, struggling. "Let me go now!"

"Then who are you and what are you doing here?" his fists tightened on her arms. She winced in pain, writhing to the best of her ability. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm not telling you anything!" Ginny spit in his face. Her fear turned into anger and her face began to turn red. "You release me this moment or I swear to God…"

She didn't have time to complete her threat. The intruder slammed her against the wall again, repeatedly. Her head was spinning by the time he stopped. 

"Is this the home of Ronald Weasley?" the man's breath was hot on her cheeks. His face was peaked into a harsh expression, his eyes piercing hers. "Is it?" he demanded, letting go of her.

Ginny began to relax, feeling the blood flow to her elbows again. Her relief was short lived, however, because the moment she looked up was the moment she came face-to-face with the end of a wand. The man stood a considerable distance away, almost wary of her.

"Is it?" he screamed, waving his wand tensely. 

"I'm not telling you a damn thing unless I get some answers myself!" Ginny yelled back, her heart fluttering wildly. She eyes darted about wildly, searching for an answer hidden in the wallpaper or shelf.

The stovetop was still burning hotly.

She did not have time to sweep forward. The horrific man pounced on her, his hand on her throat. His wand was pointed to her temple. A sick panic took hold of her again. Hermione probably could hear them, but Ginny hoped with all her might that she didn't crawl downstairs to see the damage. She guessed Hermione's false identity and would do anything to keep this man from her.

Ginny bared her teeth.

---

Seamus had taken out his private stash of brandy and a few glasses. They sat unused on the top of his desk as he spoke of a particularly horrible date he had been on the previous week. Ron laughed and eyed the bottles with a spark of interest. If Seamus were to offer, he would not turn it down. 

However, before Seamus could even think of uncorking the bottle, there was a fluttering noise coming from the hallway. It was the nightly stampede of mail flying about and one envelope zoomed above Ron's head. It landed square on Seamus' forehead. He smiled, took it down, and set it aside. 

Instead of lying complacently on the desktop, the letter hopped up and stuck itself in Seamus' eye. The man nabbed the letter with a cry of complaint and set it under his fist. "Bugger must need to be opened right now," he said to Ron, rubbing his eyelid. 

Ron sat silently as he read it over quickly. Seamus stood abruptly, a worried frown on his face. He handed the letter to Ron and slipped from the desk to fetch his robes.

_46- _

_Ron's place. Now. Compromised. _

_-78_

Ron's face paled at the hastily scrawled parchment. He stood as well and followed Seamus quickly out of the office, the letter left crumpled on the floor. An empty portkey was clutched in his fist instead.

---

Gus was tearing apart the man's leg. He had found a hole weathered in the side of the backyard door and slipped through when he heard the faint yelling. Someone had put a silencing charm about the house, but his excellent hearing penetrated it easily. Such was the advantage to being a dog.

The intruder kicked the mutt into the corner, disgruntled. This was not the way the ambush was meant to go. He had no idea where Eleanor was, or who she even looked like now. He had prepared to come to face a completely different person. However, the nasty redhead he had dealt with was obviously not her.

He went towards the stairs, hearing a different voice calling to a 'Ginny.' He glanced over at the woman lying sprawled next to the stovetop. Her eyes were rolling in the back of her head, her limbs unmoving. He recognized this new voice and his interest was piqued again.

Gus launched himself at Theodore Ryker with all the energy his taught muscles had. His teeth sunk into warm flesh again, drawing hot, metallic blood. It smeared across his mouth and caught in his nose. The dog would not let go. Ted screamed bloody curses, holding onto the banister. The damn dog was compromising his position – after yelling, he would not have the element of surprise on Eleanor. That was something that would be sorely missed. 

Ted pointed his wand at the dog's muzzle and hissed, "_Avada_-"

He could not finish, however, as there was a loud crack that left him trailing off his sentence. His senses became hyper alert as he crouched in the shadow of the stairs. _Shit_, he thought, _shit! _This was all planned out this morning! Agent Hannover had given him direct instructions! Eight o'clock, take the fireplace, cover the house – no mention of Ronald Weasley attending. _Damn it_. At least the dog had disappeared.

Shit – the dog! He was at the bottom of the stairs snarling loudly up at him. It was sure to attract attention. Ted Ryker gripped his wand tightly and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was ready.

"Come on," Seamus hissed, his wand brandished in front of him. They were in Ron's living room and hurried quickly towards the stairs. Everything was dark. 

Ron was nervous, but was arranged. All of his Auror training came flooding through his body. He kept low, wand close, head down, eyes alert. He could not cast a spell unless needed. He would protect from the rear flank, just as Seamus would from the front. 

"_Confringo_," a deep voice hummed through the darkness and a bright flash shone to their right. It illuminated the hallway for less than a second, but it was enough. The blasting charm set fire to the floor not eight feet away from them. It sparked the dog's tail and it barked loudly.

"Gus," Ron murmured, leaping forward. Seamus was already dueling with the stranger who thankfully had missed. Curses rang through the air, but Ron did not join in. Instead, he stood, transfixed, on Gus.

Gus was shaking. At first Ron thought he had been hurt, but he was wrong. The dog's legs twisted and buckled, as did his neck. He was watching with grotesque interest as the animal stretched and grew. Gus transformed into something – _someone _– completely different.

No longer was his household companion standing before him, but a tall, thick man dressed in what seemed like regulation Order robes. He stood brandishing his wand, panting, with his canine teeth still sharp and long. 

"_What the fuck_?" Ron shouted, rushing forward. He thought the man-dog a threat and lunged. His wand was close to his hip, a Confundus charm ready on his lips. A flash of purple light screamed over his head. He ducked quickly, but kept darting. He heard Seamus' voice in his ears, but couldn't make out what he was yelling. 

The fight with Ryker was moving slowly up the stairs. The damn bastard kept moving upwards and out of blast range. Seamus cursed loudly and sent more spells flying. He would do anything to keep him away from the upstairs bedroom. He recognized the man's face when the light shone on it – no one could forget his eyes. Ron was being no help at all, but luckily help was there.

The man-dog grabbed Ron by the collar of his robes and shook him, staring him straight in his eyes and screaming, "Ron! This is Viktor Krum! Stop, I'm Viktor!"

Ron didn't believe it. His body was pulsing with confusion and his eyes darted about wildly. Was this really Viktor Krum? His face was broad and tan, his nose the profound feature. It could be. The heavy accent helped.

Viktor could spend no more time trying to convince the man he protected of his identity. Seamus was in trouble and losing badly. He threw Ron out of the way of the flames and went to help. His bulky frame moved surprisingly swiftly as he ran, stopping quickly next to Seamus.

Ron watched with wide eyes, immobile, from his position on the floor. He was directly across the doorframe that led into the kitchen. He watched Seamus fight, his lips drawn back from his teeth. Veins popped and pulsed in his neck and forearms. Viktor seemed more collected, but his brow furrowed erratically. Ron couldn't believe what he was watching.

His gaze fell to his surroundings. The wall of fire was spreading towards the front door – that escape was blocked. The backdoor was still safe. It was an instinct he had grown up with – to identify points of exit before the mission was over – and it served him well. He looked towards the kitchen and his mouth fell open.

Ginny's twisted body lay at the bottom of the stove. Her large eyes were rolling dangerously upwards, as if to signal there were flames above her head as well. Ron only remained in his position for less than a minute, hoisting himself up with tremendous velocity. He tumbled into the kitchen and did not stop to listen to the calls of his teammates, who wanted to know what in the hell he was doing leaving them.

Anger mixed with adrenaline as it raced through his fiery blood. He hauled Ginny into his arms, feeling the muscles bulge, and ran to the best of his ability towards the back door. He kicked it open easily and set his sister on the lawn. He smoothed her forehead and turned sharply to dart back inside. His brain wracked over the finite number of spells it held. His hand wrapped around his wand.

This monster would not get Hermione, too.

"Ron!" Seamus yelled, ducking behind Viktor. "Get upstairs!" He bobbed into spell range and screamed, "_Obscuro_!" Ryker stumbled backwards, his vision swimming in front of his eyes. He did not stop dueling, but it was difficult.

Ron did not ask for more directions. His mind was only focused on one thing.

"Wait!" Viktor's heavy voice called sharply after him. "Ron!"

Ron whipped around, still picking his way up the stairs. Ryker was so close they could have touched. Only a blocking charm stood in his way. He raised his eyebrows, wary to speak.

"Catch," Viktor called, and threw an empty bottle of beer at him. Ron caught it easily. "It should activate in less than a minute – _hurry_."

He didn't need any more encouragement. Seamus and Viktor could handle themselves. His footsteps reverberated through the rest of his body. Sweat flew into his eyes and down the back of his robes in rivers. His breath grew into panting from exhaustion, but his mind did not recognize the pain. It only held the picture of Hermione. 

Finally, Ron could hear her. She was crying, but it was muffled somehow. Panic grew in his chest – had that man already dealt with her? Was she hurt? Dying? He slammed the door open and searched the room in madness.

"Ron!" her voice burst forth. Her relief overflowed, sending cool sensations to slither down her spine. Fresh tears began again, so thankful that it was not an intruder. "Ron, what's happening?" She felt so tired, but she felt tiny pinpricks of fear erupt over her back. "Where's Ginny?"

"No time," Ron said. He flashed a terse smile. Hermione was alright – her stifled voice was due to the pillow that was clutched to her chest. "We need to get out of here now."

"Why?" worry spilled into her stomach. The commotion still continued outside the door and she saw a flash of deep red robes flying. Her breath caught in her throat and she turned quickly to look at Ron for answers.

"Grab this," Ron ordered, holding the beer bottle out in front of him. He knelt over the bed and wrapped a strong arm around her waist. "Take it now!"

Hermione was crying. Her fingers were limp around the warm neck of the bottle. "Why? What's going on?" she shrieked. 

"Eleanor!" Ted's voice sounded unbearably close. Black dots appeared at the edges of her vision. She dared not move – she must have heard wrong. Ted was thousands of miles away in hiding. She was in a safe house. There's no way he would ever appear to her again. She saw his hand wrap around the doorframe – there was no mistake, the long scar that ran from knuckle to wrist proved it - and began to wail.

Ron put her arms around his neck. He took half a second to smell the tender scent of vanilla that came from her skin. He held tightly onto the bottle and to her. "Don't worry," he whispered to her, "Just don't let go of me."

"_Avada Kedavra!_" a voice shouted.

There was a flash of light and Hermione's bawling seemed to mute in his ears. Pressure built all around him, trying to tear her away. Ron clung to her slim body and shut his eyes shut. He could not tell if she was breathing or not, he did not know if the Killing Curse was meant for her or him. He only knew that he was alive. He said a prayer for his sister, for Seamus, for Viktor. 

Suddenly, he fell hard on cold dirt. 

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it? I feel jittery just posting this chapter. I wanted to inject some action into this - I felt like the story would drag if I kept going with the same, long plot line. :):):):)

Also, I think some may question why Viktor chose to stay in "Gus" form for so long... I figure that he didn't want to compromise his position when it was just him and Ted. I think he wanted to use the surprise - would anyone really kill a dog:)

Have a great rest-of-the-week!

Katie


	15. At Work, In Motion

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **HEEEEYYYY GUUUYYYYSSSSSS SOOORRRRYYYYY.

Let me go over the excuses I have for not updating in two weeks (which I am very, very sorry about): Spring Break, Scholarship Days, housing forms, internet connection difficulties, general laziness, and copius amounts of CSI seasons 1-5. I devoted an entire week just to get college stuff in order and study for exams. You know how it is, right?

Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this next chapter. I have to admit, the end was a little hurried due to the fact that I wrote half of it in one night (tonight). Hopefully you find it action-packed and thrilling. :) And thanks to everyone who commented, even when nothing new showed up. I really appreciate it.

* * *

Ron felt a considerable amount of weight fall on the length of his body, pressing the hot air out of his lungs. When he went to breathe again, to shift, to move, his mouth was filled with cool wind. It tasted icy, but fresh. The atmosphere was invigorating. He rolled to his side, his hip digging into the unbending earth, and felt relief when Hermione's body lolled beside him.

He blinked through the darkness easily – the stars above them were unusually bright. They illuminated the mountains that surrounded the seemingly barren valley they lay in. Their rigid faces were harsh and capped in snow. The dell was simply grass and bush, sparse of animal life. Ron only noticed for seconds.

Ron tossed the bottle beside him and groped onto his elbows. He stared into Hermione's still, calm face. A cold, stinging sensation ran throughout his body as his arms began to shake. He touched her face. It was clammy. He stroked her cheek for a moment, before realizing the terror that was spreading like a virus in his heart. She was dead. Hermione had suffered the curse – the portkey had worked a moment too late.

"Hermione," a barely audible whisper escaped his lips. His eyes would not move from her face, they were grossly fixed on the way her eyelashes stained her cheeks like ink stains.

She groaned. It was soft and gentle and he thought his mind was playing tricks, but her lips had parted a fraction of an inch. Her belly had moved to force the noise out. Something inside her was still burning, still fighting, still alive.

"Hermione," his voice had grown in strength. It swelled with worry and hope and fear and faith. "Hermione?" Ron pulled himself off his quaking elbows and sat above her on the ground. He pulled her into his lap and cleared the hair out of her face. Soon, her body was lying against his. His arms wrapped warmly around her and shook lightly. "Hermione, can you hear me?"

Her head slumped backwards onto his shoulder, her forehead resting against his neck. He could feel his pulse jumping against her skin. He smoothed his hands back and forth across her arms. It was soothing for the both of them.

"Hermione," his voice was loud, commanding.

She moaned again in response. Her voice, too, was stronger now. He could feel her eyelids flutter like tiny wings and gripped her tighter. He sighed in relief.

"Ron?" she was tired, so tired. It was an effort to move. The rush of the portkey had drained every ounce of her energy; the crash-landing had knocked her unconscious. There was a sweet dullness all around her.

He rested his chin against the top of her head and sighed a full breath.

"Ron?" Hermione asked again.

Ron found he had to take a few moments before his heart slowed enough for him to fix the words in his mouth. "Yeah," he whispered. Gentle release slipped through him, his back arching and arms drooping. "I'm here."

Hermione could not pull any emotion from her heart, besides instinctual fear. She was fatigued and weary, so ready to creep back into delightful, dreamless sleep. "Where are we?"

Ron's eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the night and they glittered keenly through the black haze. He saw the jagged mountains that lay seamless around them, he saw the tufts of jade grass that stretched out for miles, and he saw the moon full and gleaming in the distance. "I don't know," he breathed, stretching to look behind. He beheld the same sight – surrounded in strange country with nowhere to go.

"Are we alright?" Hermione barely cared for his answer. Her eyes were tremendously heavy. Ron's shoulder was boney, but it was warm and comforting. He smelled like home and that was good for such a situation.

Ron was still looking about, planning. There was a tiny dirt path a few yards off and that was the most promising thing the land held. "Yeah, I'm fine," he exhaled, finally feeling the chill in the air. It was June, for God's sake, why was it so damned cold?

"Good," Hermione replied. She succumbed to the thick want of sleep quickly, her last thought of the patch of freckles hidden under his chin.

"Are you alright?" he asked, stretching to see where the trail led. It disappeared in a curve, but he hoped it led into the mountains. Ron felt uncomfortable in the valley, more vulnerable. His mind was working and fretting and he was barely aware of the fact his question was left unanswered.

--

"Where are they?"

Ginny's voice rang clearly through the still air of the room. She sat up, back pressed coolly against the headboard, and blinked. Her head throbbed and it was difficult to breathe through her broken nose, but she was resilient. She had woken up in a strange, stale bedroom and was frantically worried until she had spotted Seamus sleeping in a chair close by. Her question woke him with a start.

"Gin?" Seamus asked, rubbing his eyes with the full of his palms. His skin was flaky and dry and dirty – he hadn't showered since the night before. His assignment was to guard Ginny until she could be moved to a safer location in Headquarters, which hopefully would be soon that night.

"Is my brother alright?" her voice wavered, but her face was still set in unwavering concern.

Seamus sighed and prepared for a long discussion. "I s'pose so," was his nonchalant answer.

"You suppose so?" Ginny raised a bruised eyebrow, agitated at his response. "What's that supposed to mean, Finnigan? Is he alright or not?"

He wasn't going to lie to her – Ginny could tell bullshit from certainty – and he barely even knew where the couple was at the moment.

"Where are they?" Ginny asked when Seamus took too long to answer. She leaned forward to look out the half opened door across the way. "Are they here? Where are we?" The only thing she could see was dirty wood paneling.

"You're at a branch of Headquarters in Bordeaux. It's pretty ruddy here, but it's safe and quiet," at least he could answer that question without difficulty. He had shown up with Gin in his arms at Headquarters in early morning with his face and robes covered in soot. It had taken a long, tiring hour to kill the flames and discard the body. They had sent him to a dingy suburb of France and told him to stay put until further notice.

A slight hint of disgust rippled across Ginny's paled face, accentuated painfully when she tried to wrinkle her nose. A pang of hurt screamed from it and she bit her lip to keep the cry inside. She didn't want to be in France, she wanted to be in England with her brother and Hermione. She wanted to rewind the past day and cast a hex the moment she saw that bulky shadow in the hallway.

"And Ron?"

"Ron and Hermione took a portkey to a piece of guarded property in Norway that Viktor's family abandoned a few years back. It has plenty of places to keep hidden," Seamus answered truthfully, not looking forward to the next set of questions.

"So they're safe?" Ginny asked, her eyebrows furrowed heavily. Seamus was covering something and she didn't like the look of flickering secrets that shone behind his hazel eyes.

Seamus looked up at the ceiling, searching for words. "I can't be for certain."

"What does that mean?"

Seamus scratched the back of his head. "Viktor programmed the bloody thing so damned fast that even he doesn't remember exactly where he sent them. They could be at the mansion or they could be in the backyard or they could be on the top of a fucking mountain. We're really not sure at this point."

Ginny slumped and glared at her counterpart, the accusation of idiocy ready in her features. "And where is Viktor now?" her eyes flitted closed.

"Back at the Order."

"Doing _what_?" Ginny snapped, annoyed.

"What do you think?" Seamus responded quickly, playfully. "He's trying to get them back as soon as possible."

"Why not just let them stay at the house, if it's abandoned?" Ginny asked curiously. Everything was moving at an incredible speed and it gave her a headache. "They _are_ safe there – you said it yourself."

Seamus stilled, thoughts humming through his mind and filling the silence that seemed to encompass them both. Ron and Hermione were safe… for the moment. If the Shop could find Ron's undetectable flat, then surely they would be able to find him again. Viktor had said his full name aloud in an Agent's presence – whether he was listening or not – and revealed his identity to his enemies. It was only a matter of time before the information got back and the dots were connected. It could be only a week and there would be another infiltration.

"They're not?" her voice was soft and dangerous, her eyes peeking sharply out from behind ginger lashes. She stared at Seamus' twisted hands. They were gnarled, thick, and chapped; they belonged on a man thrice his age. He picked at a fingernail and Ginny knew that not everything was whole by his discomforting quiet.

"They're alright for the moment and that's all I can say to the truth," Seamus answered in a low voice, aching to let forth a lie to soothe her. "They're safe today."

"And tomorrow?" Ginny countered, her heart falling in her bruised chest.

Seamus looked her in the eyes and told her everything through his glance. "I don't know."

--

Sweat was pouring in rivers down the smooth curve of Ron's back. Droplets skimmed down the juts in his cheeks, the stiff arch of his elbows, the tired camber in the back of his knees. The cool air whispered around him, but nothing was pacifying to his state. His arms ached with the weight they carried, his ankles screamed in pain, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. They had been walking – _he_ had been walking, she riding – for over an hour without stopping.

The gravel path Ron had spotted the night before led them against the rocky ridges of the mountains and through a twisted maze of sparse scenery. The lack of diversity in the sights almost drove him mad, but he followed the dirt.

"What is that?" Hermione hadn't spoken for a while. Her cheeks were flushed with slight embarrassment. She hated being carried, but after the first fifteen minutes of stilted walking she had been panting with pain and exhaustion. Ron had gathered her in his arms and continued their journey without a word. She would have remained quiet if not for the anomaly her eyes had spotted.

"What?" he puffed, turning his eyes upward.

Hermione pointed to something quite out of the ordinary several miles away. There was a black spire that jutted out the top of a jagged cliff in the rock face a considerable distance away, the base of it hidden from sight. It could have easily been mistaken for a bare tree, but Hermione's quick and observing eyes saw the little ruts of crowning at the tip.

"It's a roof," she breathed, straining to get a better look.

Ron's spirit perked on hearing the words. "You're right." His step quickened, forgetting the weight in his grasp. A cold wind was on his back, as if to push them closer. It might be their salvation - a place to stay for the night, a place to rest – and they were so near.

"It's a house!" Hermione clutched the damp shirt on Ron's chest as her eyes widened in amazement. "Do you see it, Ron? Do you?" her voice was bridging fanatical. Tonight wouldn't be spent shivering on the ground. Tonight she would figure out everything that had been racing through her mind in the past day, as answers would be ready through Floo and fire.

"Yeah," Ron answered, heart hammering. The burn in his legs intensified as he brought them both upon the building that would house them.

It was large and ornate, though the years of abandonment were displayed clearly on the broken windows and crumbling outer walls. It was rectangular shaped, with small wings on either side protruding from the front. Covered in once-beautiful windows, the main section was a pale yellow and topped with a steeping, black roof. There was a tall tower in the back, where the spire originated from.

The road under Ron's feet solidified and brought him to a walkway cluttered on both sides by foliage. The hedges were overgrown, but still a brilliant green color in the cold. Hermione flinched as the prickly branches swiped across her skin and looked expectantly in front of them. There was a pair of large, black doors so close she would walk to them if she could. Ron dropped her to the ground and helped her gain her shaky balance, her hands pressed against the wall.

The doorknob was a circle – one half for each door – and it would have been a proud gold if not for the years of rust that covered it. Ron brushed his fingers over it and uncovered a strange sight. The disk showed an animal that was unrecognizable. Ron thought it could be a dragon or a jackal or a mix of both. Its neck was twisted backwards; jaws open to show large fangs. The animal's body was freckled with tiny spokes and its claws were fierce and open. The tail continued up from the body and stretched around the circle to form symbols – probably foreign letters, Ron presumed – that were glowing under his touch.

Ron glanced at Hermione for her input, eyebrows raised. Hermione leaned over to trace over the picture and was taken aback when the animal squirmed and hissed under her touch. It drew her curiosity. She gently pushed Ron aside to wait while she tried to uncover the mystery. He complied grudgingly.

"I recognize this," Hermione whispered, playing with the monster, tickling its spiny belly. "I can't quite place it, but I remember this from somewhere." The dragon-dog nipped at her fingertips.

"Does it really matter?" Ron asked, leaning back against the building. He crossed his arms, ready to be done with the crest. "Just open the door and we'll be on with it."

"Just wait a moment," Hermione snapped, fearing that he would push her aside soon. The handles were intriguing and she welcomed the puzzle. "I'm not sure if I can even pull it." Her fingers traced down the crack the black doors made and found no groove in the rusted disk. "I don't think I can."

"Are you sure?" Ron pushed himself off the wall and tugged on it lightly. Nothing moved at all.

Hermione shot him a glance. "I told you so."

Ron narrowed his eyes and set himself to the side again, his mouth tight. He watched angrily as Hermione's eyes clouded and she poured over the millions of facts her mind retained. She went through faces and settings and experiences before foggily coming up with a name.

"Viktor Krum," she whispered, her finger pressed hard against the handle. Hermione looked up and around and exclaimed again, "Viktor!"

"What about him?" Ron wanted to know quickly. His heart began pumping fast.

"I've been here before, because this is Viktor's home. I came to visit for the holidays the winter of our sixth year at Hogwarts. It was for less than a day, but I remember!" Her dreamy gaze scoured the windows and up the spire. She pointed, "That was the clock tower – you could hear it all over the grounds." Her hand went back to the door. "This place used to be beautiful."

Ron nodded. "Do you remember how to open the door?"

"No," her voice was soft, "Viktor always did it."

"I thought you said you were here _once_." His fingers grew stiff as his impatience rose.

Hermione turned away and smiled secretively. She didn't answer. Instead, she turned her attention to the monster. "These letters spell something in Latin, maybe." She put her face closer and saw that the symbols were not of the English alphabet.

Ron peered at them, too. "It's Bulgarian," he scoffed and watched with amusement as she blushed.

"Of course," Hermione stammered, her temper flaring. "You don't happen to know Bulgarian, do you?"

"No," Ron bit.

Hermione sniffed and looked back. The dragon-dog was circling around her finger. The letters were moving slowly and suddenly, it came to her.

"_Cerberus,_" her voice was firm, just like Viktor's had been. It was the name of the dog guarding the gates of Hades – the animal of the Krum family crest – and the animal on the handle. It jumped in delight as she pulled her hand away. Its tail straightened and lashed out, sending a crack down the middle of the circle. Hermione pulled hesitantly and felt the locks in the door turning and creaking.

Ron helped and soon, the door was pulled open. They were met by a gust of stale air. Hermione coughed as the dust sprinkled across her nose. Ron led her by the hand into a grand room that had served as a Welcoming Hall. Hermione remembered the marble floors and the bay windows that lined the back of the room, collecting the sunshine. The walls were lined with portraits of the Krum family, all eager to know their intruders.

It was cold and dank inside, the most prominent smell the rotting carpet that lined the grand staircase in the middle of the room. The couple was speechless and wandered about on their own accord. Ron's sharp Auror's mind told him to scout the place and only when he found it stable could he relax and putter about. Hermione's was more engulfed in the faces that watched disapprovingly as she milled about. The large fireplace across the room drew her attention.

Ron soon found all of the rooms in the downstairs were clear and free, besides the thin layer of grime that covered everything in sight. He quickly went up the stairs and down the hallways, pushing open doors with Hermione's wand drawn tight in his fist. There was nothing. He stopped at the top of the stairs and watched Hermione tip back the picture frames on the mantelpieces and peer quietly into them.

"What do we do know?" Hermione's fingers looped gently over the bumps of a silver frame of Viktor as a young boy of six or seven. She cleared away the gray earth to see his smiling face. Her eyes flickered over the other tiny portraits of the family. There were old women with tight mouths and young gentlemen leering down the family nose into the camera. There was another young Viktor holding a tiny broom and waving vigorously. It made her heart hurt and she jerked away.

Ron gripped the railing and poured over the heavily-loaded question. His former training helped and his mind quickly put his concerns in order. He turned to meet her stare. "You need to rest. There's a master bedroom up here that's not too cluttered. I could have it cleared in a matter of minutes. While you sleep, I'm going to see if these old fireplaces will let me get to Headquarters in England."

Hermione froze, her fingers cold on the mantle. "You're going to leave?" she tried to keep her voice from shaking. Ron had been right about how tired she was, but she was still as determined to find out what had happened to them. Living in Viktor's house – sleeping in his own bed – without knowing if he was alright would be unbearable and she refused to do so.

"No," Ron's voice seemed drawn. "I suppose I could just send a message."

Her heart slowly calmed. "Alright," she agreed, "then what?"

"I don't like being here," he replied, a grave look on his face. The manor was empty, but the air of uncertainty hung thick on both of them. "We're leaving as soon as we can."

The room fell silent. Hermione did not argue, for she felt uneasy in the abandoned home as well. There were so many watching, judging eyes overtop mouths that sneered, but did not speak. They were surrounding them both and did not seem to like the invasion. A shiver ran down her body and she visibly shook.

"You're cold," Ron descended the staircase and walked to her. He held out his arms and quietly, Hermione into them. As he carried her back up the stairs, their eyes remained downcast. Their adventurous spirit and previous triumph had been forgotten. It was just another long, hard hurdle to jump.

--

"Do we have a group yet?" Viktor's commanding voice rang through the large conference room.

Many heads turned to look up at him, but just as quickly they returned back to work. Only one agent spoke above the hurried buzz. "Sir," her voice was curt, "We only have one available unit with the size and skill need for a rescue or a capture. You need to make the decision on where they're to go."

The agent stood at attention, two folders tucked snuggly under her bare arms. Viktor had called on all available workers that night to set up a command post and had been very lenient on the dress code. Many had shown up groggily in their pajamas. He didn't care. The only thing on his mind had been Hermione.

Viktor scrubbed a hand over his face and it seemed to rejuvenate him for the moment. He took the papers and flipped through them quickly. His small, slanted eyes darted across novels of text. He saw pictures of Ron, Hermione, and Heather. He read Theodore Ryker's profile. He sighed, sagging under the weight of responsibility.

It almost hurt to force the words out. "Send Task Unit 7 to gather a woman going by the name of Heather McDowell. She has something to do with this, I'm sure of it."

"And what about Weasley?" the agent demanded.

Viktor felt the urge to snap at her to use Ron's Order Title, but instead clenched his fists. He too had forgotten to do the same in a moment of panic and could not handle being called a hypocrite at the moment. He hardened himself and prepared for a very long day.

Gathering a quill and parchment, Viktor said, "I'll find them myself."

--

A tapping on the glass pane of the window across the room woke Seamus. He rolled his neck, wincing at the snapping sounds it made. He had fallen asleep sitting in a chair pulled close to Ginny's bed. The clock read 3 A.M. He stood shakily, but regained himself enough to see an owl resting on the balcony outside. He opened the latch with clumsy, thick fingers and let the tiny animal hop inside. Seamus took a great breath of morning air and closed the window with excitement stirring in his chest.

With the owl came a letter with a familiar heading. Seamus scanned the note quietly, stroking the owl's feathery head with a single finger. It nipped, expecting sweetmeats, but Seamus was too absorbed with his reading to bother.

"_Absumere_," he muttered, and the letter shred itself into small, concise pieces before vanishing altogether. Being careful not to wake Ginny, Seamus opened the door to the hallway and called softly for a nurse.

Sleepily, a witch came upon him and asked, "De quoi avez-vous besoin, Monsieur Finnigan?" Her voice was dreamy and filled with her thick accent.

Seamus was taken aback by the use of his name – he had only been in Bordeaux for mere hours. News traveled fast, he anxiously supposed. Clearing his throat, but keeping it quite low, he replied, "Je voudrais une cheminée et une poudre Floo. Il est temps pour moi de partir."

"Qu'en est-il de la jeune fille? Est-elle à rester ici?" her round face had grown serious upon hearing his plans.

Seamus shook his head. "Non, je vais l'emmener avec moi." He would not leave Ginny behind. She would accompany him back to England and make her recovery in Saint Mungos – that would be best.

The woman's eyebrows knit as she thought over the proposition.

"S'il vous plaît, mademoiselle," Seamus smiled tiredly, "Il ya urgence."

The friendly action made her yield and nodded her affirmation of his plans. "D'accord, Monsieur Finnigan, il sera prêt dans quelques minutes."

The nurse turned to go, but turned stopped when she heard Seamus say, "Merci, mademoiselle. Merci." She nodded quietly and turned into a different room. His voice remained in her ears as she prepared their journey.

Seamus turned back into the room and began to ready their things. Ginny's clothes were strewn across the floor and his wand was resting on the nightstand. All of those things were easily collected and put away. His fingers brushed across her shoulder – her skin was delightfully warm – and he licked his lips. The words were in his mind, stuck in his throat, on the tip of his tongue, but Seamus found that he couldn't disturb her sleep.

Ginny felt his presence by her head and mumbled sleepily, "I heard voices."

"Yeah," Seamus stuttered, his hand inches from her forehead. He withdrew it quickly, shamefacedly.

"Going to tell me what it was all about?" A smirk hinted in her features.

"Got a letter from Charlie - says your family is gathering at Grimmauld Place. They want me to return you." He managed a quiet laugh.

Ginny smiled at the news. "When?"

"In an hour or so. Don't worry. Just sleep."

Ginny would not argue. Instead, she evened her breathing and slipped away.

Seamus' mouth opened to add something, but he couldn't form the words. It was always just playful banter, and it seemed that was all it would ever be between them. He sat back in the chair with an owl on his shoulder and a heavy heart in his chest.

--

Felicity Hannover had the bad habit of biting her nails. Tonight, they were bleeding nubs that pained her whenever she pressed her fingers to her temples. The stress was driving her batty. Nothing had gone as planned – the raid, the ditched capture, Theodore, the rendezvous point – and she worried over what might happen next.

She crouched lower, huddled into herself, and waited for the first sign of sunlight. When the sky glowed pink and yellow, she would dig in the soft earth beside her. Then, she would find the portkey she had buried weeks ago and it would activate in her hands. She would go home. The weather was balmy and nice in the open cellar, but she missed the smell the Russian wind carried. England was a ruddy, cruel place to live and two years had been enough for her.

Felicity's mind wandered, her face turned up to the cracks in the cement ceiling, and she wondered what her life would be like once the day had passed. The tedious days of living as Heather McDowell were past her and for that, she was glad. Having to keep up the complex rouse was difficult and didn't provide for much of a social life – let alone friends or family – and she missed her home life in Ipatovo. She had been born and raised in Russia, attended school, worked, joined the retaliation, and eventually made The Shop's Headquarters in her childhood home. She dreamed of sleeping in her own bed once more.

That dream fell short when she realized that she would be returning without Theodore. Her companion and counterpart was dead – killed in the line of duty – and no one was pleased to begin with. She had relayed the information hours earlier to alert Command that all systems should go to backup, but knew that Theodore's death would not be effectually noticed until his presence was missed.

They had relayed back in code that she would continue with the original plan – the rendezvous point – and would wait for further instructions. Even with the promise of home in her sight, Felicity still had to work. She would do anything.

Felicity groaned, her knees aching, and wished for day.

--

Hermione dozed as the warmth of her covers crept over her body. Her lids were heavy as she watched Ron crouch beside the fireplace on the other side of the room. He had a tiny bag of Floo clutched in his hand, her wand casting scouring charms in the other. She had been observing him dart about the room for a while now. The rustling of his clothes and the soft padding of his feet across the floor subdued her nerves and lulled her into a nice calm.

"Damn thing," she heard Ron mutter under his breath. There was a crack and she knew her wand had backfired on him again. Hermione rolled over, a smile on her mouth, and sighed heavily into the clean, white sheets.

The whole room was white – well, it had been once – and everything blurred together in a snowy mass as Hermione shut her eyes. The walls were a creamy color highlighted by intricate, silver patterns on the paper. The floors were covered in white carpet charmed to never dirty. Even the posters on the bed were a shining, fair color. It made her feel clean and soothed – exactly what she needed.

Ron leaned back on his haunches and glared at the fireplace. It was the only one with an open vent to the roof and therefore it was the only one that would allow Floo powder. The chimney wouldn't unplug, though he had tried unsuccessfully for the past twenty minutes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

With one sudden movement, Ron thrust the wand up the structure and said with as much frustration as possible, "_Mundavi!" _There was a loud bang and a plume of black smoke thudded down to greet him.

Ron coughed and stumbled away, swiping at the air in front of his face. He choked and was able to say, "_Dispari," _before he gagged. The dust cleared slowly. Ron quickly turned and saw that his antics had not woken Hermione and was relieved. He didn't like making mistakes in front of her, even now.

He tossed in a pinch of Floo powder and said in his most authoritative tone, "Order of the Phoenix Headquarters, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, England." Familiar green flames sparkled before his eyes. Ron took a deep breath and thrust his head inside.

"Look!" a voice screeched, ringing in his ears. Ron flinched and blinked through the emerald fog that clouded around his head. "It's Ron! Look!"

"Ron, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" a masculine voice shouted at him.

Angry, Ron opened his eyes and glared at the man stooping down to face him. He looked straight into the eyes of his older brother. It was a face he did not expect. "Bill?" his voice did nothing to mask his surprise. "What're you doing here?"

"Tell me you're alright. Tell me you have Hermione with you and that she's safe," Bill hissed, his weathered face creasing like an old page. His eyes held a hard glint. Ron had no idea why he would be so upset.

"Yeah," he stammered, trying to calm himself, "we're both at Viktor's old home. D'you need the coordinates?"

"No," Bill answered quickly, his slanted eyes darting about Ron's face for injury. His idiot little brother had learned nothing about the Floo network serving time as an Auror, it seemed. "We all know where you are. Viktor and a team are coming to get you. Stay put. And for God's sake, Ron, don't use the damn fireplace anymore. The Floor is connected – anyone can see you if they want!"

"How else was I supposed to let everyone know that we're okay?" Ron snapped back, but could not disagree with the rest of Bill's argument. He sighed, "I'll see you soon. Regards to Fleur."

"Get the hell out of there!" Bill chided, smiling.

Ron nodded and pulled himself away from the dying fire. His head felt cold and hazy, but he had accomplished what he had set out to do. Nothing left to do but wait.

_"Abeo," _he flicked his wand and the fire was put out immediately. The plug returned itself back into the shutter in the fireplace. Communication was shut off and all was well. Ron pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room. He was weary with exhaustion, the feeling echoing in his knees and elbows.

He walked to Hermione and shook her gently awake. She rolled up to meet his gaze in the dim candlelight.

"What happened?" her voice was dozing.

"I let Bill know where we are. Someone is coming to get us soon. Meantime, you sleep. I'll let you know when it's time to go." He smiled, pulling up the covers on her shoulder. She had found a ridiculously large, old shirt of Viktors that had been deemed suitable for sleepwear. The neck opening exposed most of the skin on her shoulders and there were goosebumps.

"Are you going to sleep as well?" She closed her eyes, barely caring about the answer.

Ron rolled back on his heels. "If you don't mind." His blood thudded in his ears and a spark ignited somewhere in his chest. She was barely concious and it still sent his ears blazing. He was embarrassed by his reaction.

"I don't," Hermione told him. She rolled back to sleep again.

Ron pulled his shirt over his head and thanked God that Hermione kept to her side of the bed. There were plenty of guest rooms surrounding them, but he felt uneasy by himself. He also knew that he would be in deep trouble if something happened to Hermione while he slept. He slid beneath the sheets and felt the warmness of her body close to him. Ron blew out the candle on his bedside and stared at the ceiling for a long time, his body too nervous to slumber.

--

"When are you heading out, Sir?" an agent asked, handing him his cup of requested coffee.

Viktor sipped the warm drink before answering. "As soon as my backup gets here, Tom." He would not explain further – they would see in due time.

Tom did not take the answer as quietly as Viktor expected he would. "Well," he threw his weight to one side and stretched his legs, "when _are_ they getting here? No disrespect, Sir, but time is of the essence." He thrust his watch between them for effect.

Viktor scowled at the newcomer. "Just wait," he snapped.

His heart began to thud as Tom's words fell upon him. He strutted down the cluttered hallway, peeking in doors and reassuring agents of their work. If his man didn't show soon, then the great reveal would be ruined. It wouldn't be the biggest loss ever, but Viktor still hoped that his guest would pop in the door.

The expected visitor did not pop in the office door, but walked through it coolly, alertly. His eyes flickered from the smudges on his glasses to the wondrous expressions on the faces that turned to stare at him. A small hint of heat crept up his cheeks as he sought out Viktor through the mess. He tried not to notice the whispers that rose in volume as he walked by, head held high. He nodded at the few people who spared a "hello."

Finally, he found Viktor in deep discussion with a tall woman holding a clipboard. He clapped the hulking man on the shoulder and exclaimed, "Viktor! Sorry about the lateness."

Viktor spun around and welcomed him with a grand smile. "Harry!" he exclaimed, "Good to have you. Let's get going, shall we?"

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it? I know it jumps around a little, but I just want to fit in the whole story.

And if anyone wants to know the full translation of the French dialogue, it goes something like: "What do you need?" "I want a fireplace and Floo powder. It's time for me to leave." "And the young lady? Is she to stay here?" "No, I'll be taking her with me. Please, miss, this is urgent." "Okay, Mr. Finnigan, it will be ready in a few minutes." "Thank you, miss, thank you." I take a little French in school and had to apply myself pretty hard to make sure everything made sense. If anyone truly has a grasp of the language, feel free to critisize. :)

I'd love some feedback - encouragement, suggestions, commentary, criticism - anything! Have a great rest of the week, everyone!!

Katie


	16. Heart of the Matter

**_EDIT!!_** Okay, for those of you who have already read the last part of the chapter, you were all like, "Seamus?" and I was like, "What are you talking about?" so I looked and I accidently put "Seamus" instead of "Ron." Seamus didn't go with Viktor to his house. :):):)**

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP

**A/N: **Hey guys, another update on time! :) Anyway, I've been straying from the strictly Ron-and-Hermione storyline, but I think it fleshes out the story quite nicely. I like building up all of the other characters and giving them their own lines. So, I hope you enjoy them too. Things are going to get really big!! Oh, and for Amanda: I had never thought about Neville before. He may show up as well, later. Thanks to all of you who suggest things, because honestly, I am lost in my world for the most part and content with making things up. Thanks!!

Enjoy!! :)

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Arthur paced the front hall of the spacious apartment, the echoes of his footfalls resonating loudly in his ears. He was quite aware of how alone he was at the moment and strained to hear the familiar bustle of his family. Even though he had not lived with all six children for years, the bickering of raised voices or a party of laughter brought a smile to his prematurely wrinkled face. However, at the moment, he could hear nothing but the scuffling of his wife's slippers across the upstairs hallway. He sighed and peered out the glass in the door, knowing that he would see nothing but doing it to waste time.

It took at least a quarter of an hour before his ears picked up the faint knocking. He hurried towards the door and opened it only scarcely. Everyone was on alert tonight and a door flung wide would only attract attention.

"Come in," the whisper was rasp across his dry lips.

His heart pounded with anxiety and he willed that his knees would not buckle, as they were so inclined to do. His fingers brushed against the cool wood of the door and then he released it to step back and take a fine look at his guests.

Arthur felt lightheaded at the sight of his daughter and her companion. The simple fact she was alive made his elation consume him for several, unspeakable moments.

There she was – tall, beautiful, and marred – leaning heavily against a broad shouldered Seamus. Her face was piqued and white, her nose skewed horribly, and a black bruise forming around the contour of her eye. Her arm was bandaged and her clothes were torn. She limped and grappled onto the cloak Seamus wore for support. He gave it readily, his arms put out suddenly to hold her, and Arthur felt a surge of relief and respect for the young man.

"Daddy," Ginny said brightly, as if nothing in the world was wrong. As if her ankle weren't sprained with a tattoo of blue and green running up the side of her leg, as if her brother wasn't gone, as if her family wasn't being torn apart one by one.

Arthur almost cried with joy as he held out his arms. Ginny tumbled into them warmly and he smelled the top of her head with closed eyes as she began to mumble her story into his sweater. He barely listened – he knew the entire thing from Charlie hours before – but he loved the sound of her voice.

Arthur's eyes flickered open and darted to Seamus. He smiled that wan, broken smile that was so ready for him to give. Seamus nodded at the appreciative look, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. He stood rock solid, his shoulders squared, his feet planted firmly on the ground, and waited patiently. It was easiest to feign impassiveness and make the others feel safer – he would be their silent guardian until it was time for him to leave.

"Where is everyone, Dad?" Ginny's voice rang clear as a bell through the long, lonely hall. Her cheek moved slowly away from her father's chest, as if to commit to memory the scratchy feel of the wool. Her eyes looked down the gloomy passageway and saw dimly the opening to an empty kitchen. Her voice lost itself in the space.

"Upstairs," Arthur answered, clearing his throat. He took a deep breath and led the couple to the staircase. He offered a skinny arm to aid Ginny and was not offended when Seamus stepped in to take his place. It had been quite a while since he had allowed his children to hang off him.

Arthur took them to a sitting room and waited quietly as Ginny shrieked happily at the sight of her mother, brothers, and sister-in-law. He and Seamus stood as equals and watched the girl they both loved throw her arms around everyone's neck and sing their praises.

"Oh Mama, I missed you," she cooed to Molly. She punched Bill's arm and admired Charlie's new tattoo – her fingers running shakily over the warm, tanned skin. "You smell so wonderful!" she told Fleur, smiling grandly. She gave George a kind smile and a, "Hello Melancholy Brother. I have arrived in an even worse condition than you – does that make you feel better?"

George laughed and bade her to sit down. Both Charlie and Bill took that time to stride over the Seamus and pump his hand with hard shakes to show their quiet appreciation. Bill grinned toothily and whispered, "Playing hero, Finnigan? I thought that was someone else's job."

Besides the extraneous comment, Seamus felt at ease with the Weasley family. He remained standing until Mr. Weasley beckoned him closer to the fire. They sat around it not for warmth, but for the arrival of any scrap of news. Even then, Seamus fell into a tall-backed chair and was silent unless spoken to.

Ginny perched eagerly on the footstool and let her mother comb through her hair. Her eyes darted about the room to everyone's faces and she felt happiness all the way in the bottom of her heart. The only thing missing was Ron and Hermione and she was sure they would be found soon.

That feeling of safety was questioned as soon as George unwrapped a letter which had come by owl around the time of her own arrival. They naturally thought it had been a reassurance that Seamus was coming and not to worry. George turned to his family with a grave face and said, "They've upped the alert. Viktor is gone and so is Healer McDowell."

The group fell silent and their eyes were downcast.

"We're all to stay here until Viktor arrives with Ron and Hermione," George finished, crumpling the letter in his long fingers and tossing it carelessly in the fire.

Molly watched it burn and blacken and said, "I do so hope they're alright." Her gaze fell on Arthur for comfort.

He matched her eyes and said, "I'm sure they are." And in turn, he looked to Seamus for his own comfort.

Seamus cleared his throat uneasily as he fell under everyone's scrutiny. "Ron's a good man," his voice sounded too loud and rough. "He knows how to keep himself hidden."

"What about 'Ermione?" Fleur was clutching at Bill's hand. Her beautiful eyes were naked and Seamus could see the fear clearly. He tore his gaze away shakily.

"She's been getting loads better," Seamus answered, mostly to Ginny. She smiled softly, encouragingly. "She can walk now. I'm sure that with Ron's help she'll make it home, too."

"He watches after her, doesn't he?" Mrs. Weasley wanted to know, her voice warbling with age and worry. "Even after what happened – he's good to her?"

Seamus plastered a reassuring smile on his face. "Yeah. They have rows loads of times a day, but they're getting along just like they used to."

It seemed to placate the women and make Bill and Charlie try to smother laughs under their breath. Everyone knew how Ron and Hermione acted towards each other – how it had been before the Order, before the War, before their romance had been serious.

Seamus relaxed as the conversation started again and the focused was shifted off of him. He breathed deeply the stale air of the room and felt the warm glow of heat on his face. He heard Ginny's voice deep in his ears. He felt the camaraderie of a family he never had, but did not feel the jealousy he usually did. Instead, he remembered their pain and loss and sympathized. Already they had lost one son and the sense of being whole. They were acting surprisingly fair in the face of another potential tragedy.

However, the pain still rang fresh in Molly's heart. When she looked around and saw George quiet and alone in his chair, tears welled in her eyes. His humor – the thing that made his lifeblood run quick and pure in his veins – had been taken away with the murder of his twin. He had been alone in a crowded room ever since. Her heart burned for him and raged with want of her youngest boy. She couldn't remember the sound of his deep voice begging her to 'get off him for a second' or the way he stood slouched against a wall and was ashamed for it. Not even Arthur's gentle, but firm grasp on her shoulder could shy the guilt away.

Ginny was the heart of the conversation and the people who surrounded her were glad of it. No one really had anything to say, but remembered their social graces when her questions bombarded them. She looked from person to person and when she saw everyone was calmed to some extent, she turned to Seamus.

Seamus took the opportunity to talk to her. "Can I speak with you in the hallway?" he mumbled under his breath.

Ginny nodded cheekily, "Sure. Anything for you."

Seamus shot her a sour expression and turned to address her family. "I have to be off."

"So soon, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked immediately, her maternal instincts never wavering. "Can't I make you something to eat first? Even if it's just to take with, I'd feel better if you ate."

Hunger had been his last priority and Seamus shrugged off the offer, even as the feeling rose in his stomach. He wished it not to make any sounds that might discourage him from leaving. "I wish I could, but I think the Order needs me back at the offices. Since Viktor is gone, I'm second or third in command. They'll want me back pretty soon."

"Really, Seamus," Molly protested, getting to rise from her chair. "You used to eat like a horse. Let me fix you something."

Arthur soothed his wife back into her chair. She was exhausted and still felt the obligation to feed her children's friends. "It's alright, Molly. I'm sure there's food where Seamus is going." He smiled at Seamus and beckoned him to go with the jerk of his head. He patted his wife's limp shoulder and then took hold of her hand.

"I'll go with," Ginny chirped, wanting to say her own goodbye privately. "Walk him to the door, you know." She threw a dirty look to her brothers' raised eyebrows that shook suggestively.

Seamus stood and straightened the collar on his robes. He desperately wanted to shower all the soot and ash of the fire off his body, get the sweat that crusted along his neck and ears away from him, drown his troubles in fresh, hot water. "I wish you all very well," he said, looking at Mrs. Weasley. "Please let me know if I can do anything for you. I'll be at the offices for the rest of the day."

Charlie stood and shook his hand again. "You've done enough already, Finnigan. Thank you for getting Ginny here in one piece."

Bill did the same and clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "Let me and Charlie know if there's anything we can help with. Anything at all."

Fleur kissed both his cheeks and thanked him an airy voice. Molly received him with tears in her eyes and choked out a great thanks. She patted his cheek and hugged him like he was family. Arthur gently took her back to her seat and she sat silently, twisting a kerchief in her fingers.

Ginny took hold of Seamus' outstretched arm and departed the room with a strange feeling in her chest. They did not speak to each other until Seamus had closed the sitting room door tightly behind him. Ginny leaned against the wall and realized how tired she was, how good resting on the footstool had felt. She looked straight into the dark slant of Seamus' eyes.

"You didn't have to walk me out," Seamus chastised her gruffly, leaning next to her. They faced the opposite wall as old friends again and their conversation lilted.

"I know," Ginny sighed, "this is as far as I'm going. There's no way I'm getting down those steps again." A smile crossed her face, imagining herself in Seamus' arms as he strutted effortlessly down the numerous flights.

Seamus chuckled and scratched the back of his ear. "Fair enough," he countered.

They were quiet for a while, their eyes picking over the peeling wallpaper and cracking baseboards. They looked at the dripping ceiling and the moth-eaten carpet. Anywhere but each other, because that meant looking at the heavy tension between them.

"Will you come back?" Ginny whispered, her voice wavering with the weight the question carried. She knew the workings of the Order and she knew the pain of hearing that a loved one would be gone for months at a time. Just as she put Harry in the back of her mind, Seamus was joining his exclusive deserters club. Her gaze flickered shortly to him and then back to the carpet beneath her feet.

"Do you want me to?" Seamus asked lazily, his own pulse quickening.

"Yeah," Ginny murmured, unabashedly. She looked to him, her eyes unable to focus on one thing for long. She roamed his face, going over his smooth, shaved head, the deep recesses his eyes glittered out of, how strong his nose and jaw looked in the shadows, and the tight curve of his mouth. She was reminded of Harry for a moment and was scared.

"Then I'll come back," Seamus promised seriously, "as soon as I can, Gin." His hand was on her shoulder as an act of comfort. He too knew that it may be months before he saw her again after he set foot out the door. It weighed greatly in his mind.

Ginny took a step back, feeling horribly guilty. "Good," she whispered, not believing the words that her tongue created. She threw her arms around Seamus' large bulk and held him tightly to her, trying to numb herself of everything that she felt. She wanted to say goodbye clearly and freely.

Seamus wrapped her in a rough embrace and felt the urge to slip away. He wasn't used to dealing with his own wants and needs, especially romantically. Through and through the match was clandestine and he felt Harry's presence even when they were alone. He wished dearly he could whisper in Ginny's ear how easy it was to love her and hold her, how difficult it was to keep the words inside and his face from hers. Seamus was professional in all aspects of his life – expecting to be alone – and was shaky.

He gripped her shoulders tightly one last time, before letting Ginny glide away. His mouth opened to blurt out something, anything, but he saw her hand resting on the doorknob and thought better of himself. Ginny knew anyway – she could see it plainly – and had to leave him. Better to kill it before any real attachment formed.

"Goodnight," he said lamely, his bravado vanished.

Ginny's chin shook as if she were trying to hold in tears. "Night," she tried to say casually, but lost her voice.

--

"_Kill him_."

The voice slithered in through her head like a fog descends on a town – quietly, coolly, unexpectedly. Sleeping, what she saw was nothing but blackness. The voice shook her.

"_Go on, kill him_."

The sound brushed against her skin lightly and unnerved her. It was a tone like a lover might whisper in her ear, persuading her, coaxing her on. She squirmed, smiling, and wondered who it might be she should have to kill.

"_Kill Ron, silly girl. You know who." The voice laughed, filled with mirthless joy. "Just end him and then you'll be free_."

Hermione tossed under her hot covers, questioning why it should be Ron. She liked him so.

"_Kill him, Granger_."

Alright, she succumbed to the highly suggestive voice. There was a promise in it, unspoken, but she heard happiness. She turned again, uncomfortable.

"_He's sleeping right beside you, girl. You could smother him if you pleased_."

She reasoned with her secret voice. He was much too strong to just lay there while she sat on his chest and held a pillow over his face. There would have to be another way.

"_You know magic, silly. Hex him, charm him, use Avada Kedavra. It will be simple. And then you can leave. Go back to Ipatovo and be with the man who really loves you."_

In her sleep, Hermione frowned. Ted? She thought that he was dead. Killed by the same curse the voice was suggesting she use on Ron. She rolled over and felt hot, hot heat on the back of her neck.

"_Theodore is not dead – Weasley just wants you to think that. He wants to keep you an invalid for the rest of your days. You'll not see your family again if you let him control you. Kill him and Ted will be happy and love you and let you be free to do whatever you aspire."_

That was odd reasoning.

"_It makes perfect sense, stupid girl!" the voice spat, showing its vileness for the first time. "Roll over and end his life."_

Ron awoke when Hermione cried out in her sleep. It was not a wail of helplessness, but one of hardship and confusion. Her voice was raspy and foreign. He leaned over her and grabbed her shoulder.

"Hermione?" his voice was thick with slumber. "You okay?"

Hermione jerked in his grasp quickly. Ron reared back to find that she had scratched his arms with her fingers stretched like claws. What was more surprising was that Hermione did not stop – she was out for blood – and scratched his face with sharp nails.

"Hermione!" Ron gasped loudly, angrily. "What the fuck are you doing?" He fended off another blow. "Can you even hear me?" he shouted.

Hermione came at him again with her eyes closed tightly. Her hands were held like weapons as she darted clumsily beneath her covers. Ron grabbed her wrists and wrestled her onto her back. There was something wrong and it festered in his stomach. He pinned her down and straddled her waist, her arms tucked very snuggly under his legs. As Ron looked down upon her face, Hermione twisted and wretched and her skin became very red.

"Snap out of it!" Ron barked, his hands lay thick on her shoulders. He wrestled to keep her down, to break her of the horrific trance. "Hermione Granger, you wake up now!" he yelled as loud as he could, digging his own nails into the soft flesh of her arms.

And then Hermione stilled. She was still hot as fire beneath him, but she lay complacently. Ron let go of her shoulders and sat back on his haunches warily. Her neck twitched and instantly he was back on guard, breathing strongly through his mouth. His eyes glittered through the darkness and saw the distressed look on Hermione's features. His hands reached up to gently cup her face, sure that the worst was over. He smoothed her hair and took her in slowly.

"Ron?" her voice was weak. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah," he answered, quickly drawing away his hands. He did not scramble off her body, though, but stayed and stared.

"Oh, Ron," she was teary. Her eyes blurred with wetness, but she still saw the bright blood welling in the gashes on his face. "I'm so sorry. I had a dream."

"A dream?" he was skeptical.

"Yes," she answered, waking. The gap between her vision and reality began to widen and separate and she felt blame rest heavy in her mind. "It was terrible." She shifted beneath him, his weight keeping her firm in actuality. "I dreamed I had to kill you. I have no idea why the notion came to me, but I wanted to. I wanted to leave you and go to Ted back in Russia. It sounds so stupid saying it aloud, but I wanted it so badly."

Ron did not speak for a while. He contemplated her mental state and figured it was the trauma catching up with her. It had been a long time since they had rested and the events were conjuring up grotesque images.

"Is he really dead, Ron?" her voice was soft, sad.

"Who?" he asked, his throat closing up slowly and making his words sound husky.

"Ted."

Ron blinked through the darkness and found that things had gone lighter in the room. He could see her face very clearly now. He saw the sparkle of the spent tears dripping off her cheeks and the way her mouth was pulled to one side. He had heard a man's voice shrieking in his ears the words of the curse, but he did not know who it had been. He wanted to tell her yes, that her immoral comrade was gone forever and she shouldn't think about him again, that her past had died with him, that they were to start again here and now.

But lies were lies and he couldn't force the words out.

Instead, he said flatly, "He could be. All I know is that you're here and I'm here and we're both breathing. It could be Viktor or Seamus or Ginny, but it could also be Ted."

Hermione could not help the tears that streamed with hot passion across her face. Even if she could, she would not have bothered to wipe them away. She felt miserable with confusion.

"But we're alive, Hermione," he said roughly, his hands back on her shoulders. She felt comfort under his touch, no matter how light or hesitant it was. He was not dead and her dream was just that – her imagination. "And I don't care if you try to kill me. I don't like you that much, either. I'm going to protect you." His old sense of guardianship – the one that came when blokes stared at her body while they were at the market and the one that came when she cried into his shirt at the end of yet another funeral – hummed through his body.

There was a crash from far away that stilled Hermione's response. The couple was motionless and alert, their ears pricked up. There was a murmur of loud voices and footsteps all along the downstairs.

Ron was off Hermione in an instant. "Get up," he told her, pulling her arm. Hermione complied and let herself be thrown to her feet. Her heart pounded in her ears and washed away all outside noise. She heard her breathing and blood and nothing else. She watched as Ron's eyes widened and he grew frantic, looking all about for something.

Hermione was tugged into the corner and watched as Ron threw the closet door open. She was forced inside and fell to her knees in the rush of the moment. Her eyes shut and she hoped it was another dream. Ron closed the door gently and pushed Hermione into the cramped corner. He was terrified and sure that Ted had found them. His tight grip around Hermione's wand slipped and he realized that his hands were sweating.

"It's him," Hermione's voice was small through the darkness, but had lost its weariness. It was firm and wondering. "Isn't it?"

Ron could see nothing in the darkness, but knew that she was close. He pressed himself against her, his arms around her shoulders and his chin brushing her hair. "Maybe."

"He's going to try to kill me again. Just like he tried last night," Hermione told it as fact, not as a question. She felt in her heart that Ted's pursuit of her would only end when she was crumpled in a pile at his feet. Ron was in danger while he was with her and that wasn't fair.

"He might try," Ron confirmed vaguely. He hadn't heard a sound from outside and dwelled mainly on that fact.

"I should face him," Hermione decided. "It should be my turn to protect you. So long as I'm gone, you'll be alright."

"Don't talk such nonsense," Ron bit harshly.

Hermione inhaled the deep, dank smell of the closet and felt a strange sense of tranquility seep through her. It was time to begin repaying her debt to Ron's kindness and it would start with Ted. Ted didn't even know Ron, but Hermione bet everything that Ted would kill Ron too, if he found him. She had underestimated his cruelty very much during her short friendship and was shocked when it was revealed during her 'interrogations.' She would not send Ron to his death on her accord.

Ron was annoyed when Hermione made to stand up. She grappled through the blackness for the handle of the door only a few feet away. He scrambled to tug her back down, face-to-face. She struggled and growled, but his grip was firm. Eventually she stopped.

"Listen to me," he hissed, seeing only the shine of her wide eyes. "You are going nowhere. If that's Ted, then I'll face him. You can barely walk, let alone do magic. So help me God, you'll stay where you are if you want to get through this."

"I have to," Hermione thrust back, trying to hit away his hands. "You can't just keep taking all the guff for me. We've been muddling through this for months and I've always come away feeling guilty and resented. Please, let me make this right – let me make this up to you. I need to." She went to stand up again.

Ron shoved her back down with a force that came from a carnal part of him. Ferocity rose on his tongue. "You should feel that guilt and that shame for what you did." He breathed through his nose and said tersely, "But you shouldn't feel in debt to me. You and I both know I've been treating you terribly and I've got no excuse but a weak misunderstanding. You're a damned fool if you think that sacrificing yourself will settle the hostility between us.

"Hermione," he sighed, holding her head with his hand under her ear, "this isn't all your fault. I realized that since I heard the interrogation, but I never wanted to admit it. I hated you when you came back, because I thought you abandoned me. I hate being wrong." He laughed heartlessly at his own confession and brushed his thumb across her dry, cold cheek. "It's been a long time."

"Do you still hate me?" Hermione gave voice to the question that plagued her every time she looked his way, grabbed him for support, thought of him, dreamed of him. She dreaded the response, feeling it would only be natural for him to affirm her fears.

"No," he whispered curtly. "And that is exactly why you are staying exactly where you are."

There was a loud bang as the bedroom door was forced open. Two male voices whispered to each other and Ron watched shadows pass under the door. He stood and was glad when Hermione huddled into herself and stared at him.

"I won't lose you again," he told her, heat prickling up his neck. And with those final words, Ron gripped his wand and threw open the closet door. He lunged at the back of the first man, his wand dipping harshly into the stranger's neck in a thoughtless attack.

Ron was taken for a ride when the man bent forward and flipped him over. He hit the floor with a bang and yelped, "You son of a bitch!" He turned over quickly and scrambled to his feet.

"Ron!" a very familiar voice said casually, if not a bit scared. "It's me, Viktor."

"Bullshit," Ron seethed, wiping the corner of his mouth. He could see only the two men's outlines and did not trust anything.

"Viktor Krum," the voice replied quickly, "this is my home. You're here with Hermione because I programmed a portkey to send you here and away from your flat in Lawrence. Can you trust me?"

"Is that really you?" Ron stepped forward, reeling with surprise.

"And I've brought a friend."

"Mate!" a new voice rang clearly through the room.

Harry grinned with a full heart on seeing his best friend. "It's me!" he exclaimed, throwing out his arms and pushing his glasses back up his nose. "It's Harry." He walked up to Ron as if to present himself and readied for a glad reception.

"What the fuck are _you_ doing here?"

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it? It was so good to write a sort-of-reconcilliation between Ron and Hermione. It's like a giant hurdle that the story has crossed and now things will begin to change. :):)

Please leave comments, questions, or suggestions! Especially suggestions. :) Have a great weekend, everyone, and thanks for leaving 300 comments so far!

Katie


	17. Through the Dark

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys, it's me posting a little later than usual on a Wednesday night. :) This week has been so crazy - my senior Prom is coming up on Saturday, so my week has basically been running around going, "Okay, finish that math assignment. Okay, now buy shoes. Write a paragraph. Did i make a hair appointment yet? Write another page! Oh, no! I forgot to order a corsage. Did I write that Lit paper yet? FINISH EVERYTHING!!" So, sorry if this chapter is a little... lacking.

The office was old and still kept the horrid wood paneling her father had laid himself when he built the place in the seventies. Her long, graceful fingers skimmed along the boards and collected dust and memories. She remembered the grand chair that dozed lazily behind a large desk and her father pouring over work on the weekends and how she would bring in lemonade and they would drink it together and how all of it was still hers. Felicity sighed and looked out the window, her hand drawing back the moth-eaten curtain only slightly. The only thing to look at was rolling, green fields spurring towards the daybreak. Her eyes closed.

"Sit down, Felicity," an impeccably effortless voice drawled from across the room. It wasn't a direct order, but she would follow it anyway. Agent Hidalgo Skillen was as brown as the wood of the chair he sat in, blending into the room in a cunning, deceiving way. His voice was his magnet and he knew how to use it well.

Felicity sat and smoothed the robes she had acquired only a half hour before her meeting. They were old and worn, but new uniforms were not on the top of the budget. No one dared complain. However, simply donning the attire made her feel alive – she was part of her family again – and surrounded by good things. She fully expected to be repaid handsomely for her work abroad.

"How are you?" Hidalgo's voice ran over her in cool rivers and made her shiver. How she had missed him. He smiled that wonderful lopsided smile that showed his lengthy, gleaming white canines.

Felicity cleared her throat, trying to restrain her smile. "I'm quite well. A bit tired, but it's been a long journey to get home. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Head Agent."

Skillen shook his head and laughed piteously to himself. "Please, Ms. Felicity, please call me Hidalgo at the present." He held out his hands, as if to gesture to the whole office. "We're only acting as friends for now. No need for formalities – those will come later."

Felicity blushed and nodded.

"I am glad to hear you are well, despite the recent events."

The image of Ted was clear behind her eyes. No matter how many times she blinked, his lanky, handsome face would not rid itself. Felicity swallowed and betrayed how saddened she really was. It was policy not to become friends, but it was near impossible not to like Ted Ryker. He was humorous and fiercely loyal and The Shop was sore from the loss of him.

"I trust you did nothing to inflict this tragedy, Ms. Felicity." Hidalgo's voice had become rock hard, his hands folded tightly in front of him. He had raised an eyebrow in accusation and Felicity scrambled to prove her worth.

"Of course not," she answered in a tone that matched his. Felicity steeled herself against the attack – it was nothing personal, just business – and went on. "I did exactly as I was told. I waited down the street in the phone booth and left on schedule. I did not laze or purposefully wait. I went to the gutter just after and unearthed the portkey. It was Theodore's own fault for not doing his job."

Hidalgo waved his hand and a quill began scratching down the record. "You're very cold," he observed, staring into her hard, green eyes. They were like flint, but he did not recoil. He held the very same gaze.

Felicity shrugged with sharp, taught shoulders. She was surprised how easy it was to shrug off the false identity of Heather. Her old life, name, and manor came flooding back and she felt slightly happy that it was not a difficult transition. She could tighten her face and scowl without being questioned on her mood or day and she could speak as little as she wanted to, instead of chatter away like the happy doctor.

"However," his voice flooded over her again, reclaiming her attention. Felicity now remembered how good it felt to be around the people who weren't obsessed with her wellbeing, who didn't attempt small talk, who could not feel emotion. It was soothing to hear the promise of indifference in his voice. "There is someone who might melt that rigid exterior."

Felicity raised a thin eyebrow, scrutinizing his cryptic message.

Hidalgo nodded and the door to the side opened slowly. A stately, short man sauntered in with a struggling grin wide on his muted features. Felicity blinked and then stood in astonishment. He offered her his hand and she shook it with both of hers.

"Very nice to see you again, Felicity," his voice was light and pleasant enough, but had a dangerous undertone.

"As to you, John," she replied, composing herself. It was John Rivers standing before her, looking as he always had. His forehead sloped largely and seemed to hang over his bright, glimmering eyes and strong nose. His mouth was curved nicely and he held himself in high regard. He was regal in the physical sense and crafty in the mental.

John's grasp was cold and his fingers were icy. Felicity already knew he held no warmth.

John waited until Felicity had taken her seat until he took his own chair. He may be a heartless killer, but he still obeyed the rules of decorum. Never murder a woman who wasn't clothed, respect your elders, don't speak down to your well-matched victims, and always treat a lady like gold. He straightened the high collar on his robes and waited.

"Now that I see we've all caught up, Mr. Rivers has come to discuss with us our next step," Hidalgo drawled, drawing himself up in his chair. It was the real reason he wanted to hold the meeting – to plan and strategize. They needed to make up their lost ground, and quickly.

"Yes," John's airy voice perused the room and his eyes filled with a glint of maliciousness. "There should be a return attack as fast as we can order it. Such a loss cannot be overlooked."

"Agreed," Hidalgo murmured. The two men looked at Felicity for input.

Felicity's thoughts filled her mind, reviewing all that she could offer. "Who," she cleared her throat, "is the greatest threat, presently? Who needs to be eliminated first?"

It was Hidalgo's time to think carefully, cautiously.

"We have quite a myriad of people that need to be removed from the situation," John observed in the silence of his colleagues. "Viktor Krum, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley," he listed off their names on his stubby fingers. His lips lingered over the last name, as if there were more to say on the matter. "All members of the Order."

"And Seamus Finnigan," Felicity tried to keep herself from scowling. That man was always around, wanting to know how Granger was, how she was coping, how she liked St. Mungos, if she had learned anything else on The Shop, and loads of rubbish about the weather and Quidditch.

"The right-hand man to Krum?" Hidalgo was suddenly interested.

"Yes," Felicity answered curtly.

"Tell us about the relationship between Granger and Weasley," John asked coolly, his head cocked handsomely to the side. "They were married?"

"No," she replied, turning towards him. "About to be, but she left him some three years ago when she came to work at our agency under falsehood, as you remember. Weasley seemed aggravated had her arrival and did not take a liking to her in the least."

"Heartbroken, I presume," John responded, a cruel smile on his lips. "How lovely."

"The last time I visited under friendly circumstances, it seemed like they had reconciled some. They had no doubt grown together again under such stress. She trusts him and that's all I can say for certain." Felicity's back was stiff.

"The trust is the only thing we need," John sniffed. "Put a bounty on his head and we've got both of them. Simple."

"What of Finnigan?" Hidalgo asked, the previous conversation unnoticed in his eyes. His eyes shone unnervingly. "I've heard his name many times. He has good connections."

Felicity nodded angrily. "I can honestly say he is the most repulsive man I've met in a long time. Finnigan answers only to Viktor Krum and his sector in the Order. He's registered to plenty of authority and handles very sensitive materials. He wants to know everything all the time."

"Anyone besides his business who would notice? No family that we know of, but friends, perhaps? Drinking buddies, poker pals?" Hidalgo's mouth curved smugly around the words. He leaned forward, genuinely interested in what was about to be shared. His mind was whirring.

"His mother and father were killed by Cullen eight years ago, when he was a renegade. He signed up with Shop two years later. It's in his file. His cousin Fergus committed suicide when his wife was murdered a year later. Finnigan has no immediate family left and no social life to speak of," Felicity answered stiffly. She had already submitted all of this in writing some months ago, but doubted the men had read the file.

"None at all?" Hidalgo frowned.

"There's Krum, of course," she replied, easing back into her seat. She had found herself in a small position of power and savored it. "A few acquaintances through the offices. I never heard him speak with a woman that didn't work for him, never saw any notes on his desk not signed by employees. Finnigan lives for the Order."

"No matter," Hidalgo sat back in his chair. It didn't matter that Seamus didn't have any real weaknesses. He was still the heart of the Order.

"I want him." And it was decided.

--

They had gathered tightly in a circle, though the room was empty save for the quintet. It was cold and bumping shoulders provided them warmth and an easy atmosphere to reestablish their friendships.

Viktor was the first to speak, wary and ready to get back to office Headquarters. "So it's to be agreed?" his voice thundered and echoed in the tiny space.

"Yes," Hermione answered firmly from her seat in the armchair. Ginny, sitting next to her in a separate chair, nodded her head softly. Viktor looked at the men on either side of him and saw that everything had been settled on. His eyes darted from the masculine hand on Ginny's shoulder to the obvious space between Hermione and Ron. Viktor knew that he should leave and give them all time to speak privately, like the mates they had been once before. There was a quiet understanding as he gracefully nodded and went to leave.

Harry left Ginny's side to shake his hand and Ron soon followed. Hermione stood shakily and kissed his cheeks, murmuring a goodbye in his ear. Ginny copied, but detained him for a short while, whispering, "Tell Seamus hello." As Viktor left, the women took their seats again.

Harry took a great sigh and looked round the group, pleased to see that everyone was together again. Viktor had brought them all safely to the house – he presumed Ginny's presence was due to Viktor – and locked them into a plan of defense. They would all stay together at Grimmauld Place for the next day and then Ron would take Hermione to another Safe location. Ginny and the rest of the Weasley family would stay where they were until they got the signal to go home again. Harry was free to go where he pleased and had already chosen to stay with Ginny.

"I know I've said it before," Hermione began, smiling confidently, "but I'm so glad to see you again, Harry. It's been quite a while."

"Years," Harry agreed, unused to the sound of her voice. He was unfamiliar with the mannerisms of the people that surrounded him – the sad lilt of Ginny's laugh, the way Ron's eyes darted warily around the whole room, the sag of Hermione's eyes. The years had certainly worked them all over and he felt himself a completely different man, separated yet again from his peers. However, this was his girlfriend, his best friends. No matter how long the time apart, the group would merge again. Harry held that as his strongest belief. In the worst missions in the most horrific conditions, there was still that warm part of him that held images of these people now standing before him.

Harry glanced at Ron and noticed how disheveled he looked. Ron had not spoken to him after the initial shock of his appearance had worn off. It was not kept a secret that Ron had blamed him for Hermione's disappearance more than once. She was the attractive, best friend of the great Harry Potter and warranted a lot of attention. Ultimately, the accusation had died, but the two had drifted. Harry had drifted quite a long distance from everyone and did not fault Ron for his hesitance to speak. However, it coveted some interest in the way Ron had coasted from normalcy as well. He was a walking skeleton with white, sheen skin that dropped off his bones and stringy hair that lay flat against his forehead. He seemed alert – paranoid even – but Harry knew the feeling well.

At least Hermione and Ginny were looking a bit better. Hermione had flushed with relief as soon as she had laid eyes on her rescuing crew. Those spots of color had yet to vanish and lent her a glow that reminded him of that summer after The Defeat, that time they had spent in the summer sun all together. The memory passed fleetingly, but Harry vaguely smiled and remarked to himself how much she had grown and changed. His heart, however, was kept strictly to Ginny and he hoped to remind her of that fact in the pressing days.

She shone brighter than Hermione ever could. Though her nose was crooked and her eyes blackened, Ginny still held that air of confidence. Her shoulders were bent into a hunch and it was obvious she had not showered or slept – none of them had, excluding him – but she looked as beautiful as the day he left her seven months ago. In his mind, Harry idolized his companion – put her on a pedestal too high for her to jump down from – and he had yet to realize that all the Greek and Roman gods were stories, every book hero fictionalized, each pin-up airbrushed. All he recognized was the amount of time he had to make up to her.

With all the thoughts whirling in his head, the conversation had ended and everyone was looking at something else.

"I'm tired," Ginny spoke bluntly, hoping for relief of the tension.

"Then you should rest," Harry replied quickly, in a serious voice. "Immediately." He took her hands in his and gave a small tug. "I'll help you upstairs."

Ron wished secretly that Ginny would quietly accept the offer. He wanted Harry to go, partly because he wanted the private time to speak with Hermione and partly because he didn't want to deal with the awkwardness of speaking to him. It was embarrassing to stand next to him, to know the silly, unfounded grudge still lingered on the periphery. Harry seemed to pretend not to remember the hostility. Ron, however, dwelled in it constantly. Not only was he critical of others, but beat himself about the past on a regular basis.

"Wait!" Hermione said, surprised and upset. "Are you really leaving?"

"Yes," Harry answered, his eyebrows raised. "I think its best – isn't it?"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed, before any words came to mind. She looked to Ron. "Not at all! Shouldn't we all at least spend some time together?"

"There's plenty of time tomorrow," Harry countered kindly. He pulled Ginny to her feet, ignoring the glance she shot him. He wrapped his arm around her waist.

Hermione stared at Ron until she realized that he didn't understand how vital it was that they were friends again. She knew that he wouldn't speak up for her. So she hardened her face. "We're leaving tomorrow morning. We'll have no chance like this again."

"She's right," Ginny agreed, turning slowly.

Harry set his face very sternly and opened his mouth to argue Ginny's point, though he did want to stay.

"No," Ron's voice rang out clear and strong – louder than anything Harry had heard him speak all day. "Everyone needs this time to rest. We can speak over breakfast and that will have to suffice."

Ginny gave him a steely look, but Ron did not flinch. Instead, he sat in Ginny's unoccupied chair and turned his shoulder stiffly to her. Hermione gaped at him with cross eyebrows.

Harry cleared his throat. His grip around Ginny tightened and he decided it was best not to bicker. Ron was right and Harry wanted his alone time with Ginny.

"I want to stay," Ginny whispered harshly as they walked into the hallway. Harry shrugged and stopped at the bottom of the staircase that would take them to their bedroom.

"Listen," Harry murmured, his hands rubbing circles on her arms. "I just want to be with you for a while. Ron and Hermione may leave, but we can see them tomorrow morning. Ron is right." He leaned closer, enough to smell the faint, metallic odor of blood. It reminded him of battle and he grimaced and shook his head. "Let it just be you and me now, okay?"

Ginny had seen the expression on his face morph into distaste – like he was forcing the words out under duress. Her eyes were sharp, like her tongue. "Fine," she replied curtly.

Harry bent to pick her up, but Ginny twisted away. Her cuts burned and tears welled in her eyes. He looked up at her, as if hurt.

"I can do it myself," Ginny snapped and began limping terribly up the crooked planks. She brushed the wetness near her eyes away with the back of her hand. Harry scowled, but slowly followed her.

They didn't speak as the climbed the stairs, but Harry had to catch Ginny a few times when she slipped. She grunted a few thanks, but did not wait for him when she reached the hallway. Harry wondered what he had done wrong – what he had done to deserve her treatment – but didn't speak his worry aloud. Instead, he rushed ahead and opened their bedroom door.

Harry began to undress with no regard to the shocked look on Ginny's face. She faltered for a moment, but remembered that this had once been normal. Before all the missions, Ginny had pulled his shirt off for him, unzipped his pants, and pulled him backwards onto the mattress. She blushed and turned, tugging at her sweater. It must've taken her longer than she thought when she felt Harry's smooth fingertips brush her shoulder. Ginny shied away, but rewarded him with a shy smile.

"Do you need to bathe?" his voice was subtly suggestive, smooth as velvet.

Ginny flushed red again, staining her freckled cheeks embarrassingly. She jerked her head towards Harry and saw that he was smiling. "No," she whispered, "I did that a few hours ago when I arrived."

Harry scratched the back of his head and sighed, "Well, alright. What do you want to do, then?"

Ginny sat on the edge of the mattress. She tried to fill her voice with as much sleepiness as she could muster. "I'm so tired."

"Say no more," Harry obliged, and threw back the cool, summer sheets. It smelled like Mrs. Weasley's laundry detergent and he was glad. Perhaps the night would turn around after all. He waited until Ginny had slid beneath the covers before he dared climb in after.

Ginny watched quietly as Harry sidled up next to her. Their legs touched and intermingled, his hand was on her waist in a moment, and his bright, lean face was only inches from hers. Her heart fluttered madly. She swallowed, but felt the nervousness of the moment well back in her throat. His breath was sweet against her nose and cheeks and eyelids. She almost succumbed to a happier time when they spent lazy evenings like this as if it meant nothing at all. Now, it had turned into a pivotal moment in their relationship and Ginny had no idea how to act.

Harry's eyes were searching hers and Ginny tried to hide the anguish and confusion from them. She obviously did a good job when Harry leaned over to kiss her. It was light – as if a feather had brushed over her mouth – and gentle, that was the only reason Ginny allowed it. She pulled away after a while, but Harry followed, suspecting it was a game.

Ginny went to push him away, but found that her hands fit nicely against his naked, broad shoulders. His mouth was warm against hers and it was more urgent than before. Ginny let him, because she was needy too. She wanted all of her problems to be over and done with and kissing Harry seemed to make her mind wander. His hand went to the back of her neck, pulling her to him, their bodies pressed flushed against each other.

It was only when Harry rolled on top of Ginny with his broad palm under the hem of her nightshirt did she object.

"What are you doing?" she whispered frantically, her eyes wide.

Harry was panting and very confused. "What are you talking about? What do you think?"

Ginny struggled beneath his weight, feeling him on her hips and thighs. She began to realize she didn't like the hot embrace.

"Wait," Harry gasped, coming to his senses, "you don't want to make love?"

"No," Ginny answered in a small voice. "I don't."

Dejected, Harry rolled off of her. His mouth was a crooked line, the lines on his forehead prominent. Ginny saw the doubtful look in his eye and wanted to eradicate all suspicion of unfaithfulness.

"I just feel bruised tonight," she was quick to whisper, tugging her shirt back down. "You understand, don't you?"

"Yes," Harry's voice was deadpan and cool. "I must've forgotten for a moment what you went through. I'm sorry." This was not the way the night was supposed to end. He and Ginny were supposed to make hot, passionate love to the other and reclaim their wandering adoration through the experience. He was supposed to hold her naked body in the darkness, until dawn came and the birds sang. It was his first night with another woman in too long and it was ruined. Harry rolled over and shut his eyes.

"I'm sorry, too," Ginny answered through the still darkness. She placed a hand on his shoulder and was relieved when he did not turn away. She crawled up to him and pushed her body against his back. She still wanted to be close to someone.

They feel asleep unsure of what the next day would bring.

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it? I wasn't sure whether or not to write in Ginny and Harry over Ron and Hermione, but I like the extra Ginny plotline. I hope you do, too.

Leave me some comments and questions in a review!! Have a great week and enjoy the sunshine, everyone who lives in the midwest US!! Spring is finally here!

Katie


	18. Another Little Hole

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone! Another regular Wednesday update... surprised, no? Anyway, thank you to all who reviewed - I'm so glad that I haven't lost your interest! The support really helps me meet my self-imposed deadline and makes me feel very guilty when I don't. :)

Here's the next chapter! I felt the last one was lacking the usual Ron/Hermione interaction like the others have, so I began with them. Unfortunately, I wrote this late at night, due to the Cultural Food Fair being this Friday. I'll be graduating soon, so this means a lot of... things I have to do all the time. These things include homework, AP tests, writing stupid notes in peoples' yearbooks, making enough quiche to feed nine-hundred people, etc. However, once the summer comes, I promise that the quality of the work will increase exponentially. :)

To answer a few questions... _TheDivaDivine: _I really hadn't thought that much into Felicity's involvement in the Order financially. I figured that her paycheck - which would probably be minimal - would be directly routed back to the Shop to use. The old uniform was only a substitute until she really had time to get her own. And I apologize if I accidentally said that Seamus joined the Shop!! I honestly didn't mean it... he never did. And to me, Harry has always been able to overlook certain aspects of his relationships - able to romantisize the gap that keeps widening between Ginny and him.

Enjoy!!

The night air was surprisingly cool across Hermione's cheek as she struggled to turn over in the bed. Pressing her face into the pillow and breathing deeply, she was struck with the memories the room brought to her. Racing the boys up the stairs during humid afternoons, helping Mrs. Weasley hanging the linen outside when the sun shone white above them, midnight rendezvous with Ginny by the doorframe, exploring the haunted attic by herself on the days Ron and Harry chose to play tournaments of Quidditch. It was Ron's old room – Ron's old bed – and it smelled faintly like he used to. That sweet musk that settled in his hair and on the back of his neck and in the folds of his clothes, the mix of green grass and dirt and old wood. Hermione inhaled it deeply, lost in the past, until she realized she could not longer sense the new Ron.

Her eyelids fluttered open to the brilliant daze of the small moon outside the open window. Hermione blinked and pulled herself up on her elbows, her hand tracing the pillow next to hers. It was cold, still cradling the shape of Ron's head. Her heart skipped, but she found herself too exhausted to acknowledge any real fear.

Hermione had almost drifted back into sleep when she faintly heard the door open and shut. She did not open her eyes, as she realized it was Ron by the long strides he took across the noisy floorboards and the way he hummed to himself – his voice throaty and deep – as he pulled back the sheets. She was grateful that Ron had decided to share his room with her – being alone was unnerving and strange, even in Grimmauld Place.

She waited until she felt Ron's weight fully next to her, heard his final sigh, knew that he was settled.

"Where were you?" she mumbled.

Hermione heard Ron's head jerk against the crisp pillowcase, the covers around her waist become taught as he moved away. "Downstairs," Ron whispered back, hesitant to relax again. His brow furrowed.

"Why'd you leave?" Hermione wanted to know, her eyes drifting open slowly.

Ron glanced down at her. He had propped himself up on his elbows into a reclined sitting position. He scrubbed a hand over his face and replied, "I wanted to talk to my family."

Hermione reddened, inwardly chastising herself for her stupid question. "Oh," she said quietly, "of course you did."

"Here's a question," Ron bit, "why aren't you asleep?"

Hermione grinned softly. "I was," she assured him. "It's just you made such a racket coming in that I had no choice."

Ron eased himself back so that his head lay on his pillow and his arms folded across the quilt. He stared up at the crooked jags in the ceiling his brothers had made years ago when they jumped on the bed, their fists held above their heads. "Sorry," he replied. He had spoken to his brothers not five minutes previous and found that he missed the days they were small enough to jump on the mattresses without breaking them.

Hermione looked at the side of his broad, weathered face without worrying that he would notice. His eyes were far and foggy. She waited until his mouth dropped open, ready to speak, to shift her gaze to the window beyond.

"Charlie told Bill and me all about what happened tonight. Viktor keeps them all updated – Mum's up all night with them, making them coffee and breakfast – and we'll know more in the morning," Ron began.

Hermione cringed. She had hoped for something other than news about the incident. She wanted to hear about George's life in Norfolk – if he was happy enough in his new apartment – or if Fleur had conceived yet or the renovations to the Burrow or anything to distract her from the tiredness that seemed to settle in her bones. She did not complain, however, simply stared and wished.

"Both Viktor and Seamus are safe," Ron sighed, lying still beneath the covers. It was much too tense to sleep by now. "Seamus was here a while ago to deliver Ginny. He says he'll be back eventually, which is good. My parents don't know how to thank him. Neither of them would stay for a meal and you know how that drives Mum crazy."

Hermione smiled, but the action did not reach her eyes. She pictured a frazzled Mrs. Weasley, but could not find the real humor in it. Something else was tugging at the bottom of her stomach, making her heart ache. It took a few moments.

"Ted Ryker is dead, then," her voice was low. Her eyes closed and she did not need confirmation. Through the darkness, she saw that horrible quick, green flash and her bedroom melt into a whirling tornado. The electric jade spark flickered on and off until it was too much to bear. She finally thrust her eyes open again when she heard Ted's voice in her head, screaming and yelling and hissing.

"Yes," Ron said flatly.

Hermione turned her face towards the ceiling so they were laying shoulder-to-shoulder under the quilt. Her hands twisted into each other as she fought back the idiotic, unwarranted tears that perched beyond her lids. Ted had been her first and best friend when he knew nothing about her and Hermione would not forget that. However, she could not forget the blank cruelness his eyes carried when he was breaking her night after night. She felt her old scars burn as she convinced herself it was better that he was gone.

"Don't cry for him," Ron told her, only assuming her lapse in speaking was due to the fact she was misting up. Hermione had a right to be emotional, but not over a monster. His neck felt stiff as his muscles edged.

"I'm not," Hermione replied, blinking. She tried to rid her mouth of the frown it held.

"Don't think about him," Ron said firmly into the darkness.

"I won't," she retorted harshly. "You won't hear his name again."

"Fine," Ron bit, sensing the sharpness in her voice.

Hermione rolled to her side so that her back was to him. "Goodnight," she uttered. Her body was hot and rigid, bothered by Ron's flippant remarks. She felt herself boiling inside and nothing but time and quiet would soothe it.

Ron breathed in through his nose and let himself relax. He slept uneasily for a while, his mouth open and hands tucked under his pillow. He did not think of Hermione again until he heard his voice.

"Ron?" it was hushed, but the voice was close. He blinked wearily, struggling to collect himself. "Ron?" it repeated.

"Huh?" he turned and saw through his daze that Hermione was awake and her face was pained. He wiped his hand over his eyes and rolled fully to look at her. "What is it? It's late. You should be asleep."

She gave him a look and he did not press the matter.

"Well?" he demanded groggily.

Hermione faltered, her mouth parting and closing slightly. "Do you…? I… uh," her words were short and forced as her face screwed up, trying to grasp the right question. "I just wanted to let you know that Ted was a monster, yes, that's very apparent."

Ron groaned, his brows furrowing. "Now is not the time, Hermione."

"Let me finish!" she snapped, drawing herself closer and propping herself up so that she was above him, commanding attention.

"Fine," Ron grumbled, letting his lids drift downwards.

Hermione shook him, an anxious passion flowing through her veins. "The reason I'm so upset by his death is because he was a good friend, Ron. When you put aside the fact that he was deplorable, Ted treated me well when he considered me a coworker."

"Why are you telling me this?" Ron snapped angrily. He was awake now, and uptight. "Not an hour ago you said you wouldn't say anything else about him! I could care less about your old affairs with Death Eaters."

Hermione glared at him and quickly replied, "I'm just trying to explain my reasoning and you won't let me finish."

Ron's eyes gleamed with disgust, but he did not say anything else.

"The reason I hung around him was because he reminded me of you." She hesitated, but swallowed and continued, staring him down. "Ted barely filled the gap that you left, but it helped. He was funny and bright and sort of clumsy sometimes – everything he did reminded me of you somehow. I missed you so much that all those things helped me deal with the pressure. His friendship was the closest thing I had to you."

"So?"

"So I just wanted you to know! I wasn't in love with him and I was never unfaithful! I used him to be nearer to you," Hermione hissed angrily. "I don't care if you're placated by the news, but it feels better to get it off my chest! That's all I wanted to say." She let herself fall into her pillow as her cheeks burned. "Goodnight," she said tersely, with finality.

Ron lay stunned for a few minutes and did not use his time to reply. He was too tired for an argument and there was no real need for one, anyway. The news brought him a small amount of relief, but he did not want to express it verbally. There had been enough talking already.

Hermione was still flushed with livid excitement and embarrassment and the twisting in her stomach had not ceased. It would be a while until sleep came. She jumped when she felt Ron's arm drop across her waist, his body sneak up behind hers, his breath in her hair. He did not give a reason for the sudden contact, but it was enough.

They were asleep in minutes, their bodies flush and breath even.

--

The dirt was loose and damp as it crumbled through his thick fingers. He picked up a small, porcelain doll's head and flicked off the dots of mud. "Found something!" he called, his voice booming largely throughout the stone cellar. Someone appeared at his shoulder and took the child's toy out of his grasp.

There was a muttered incantation and the doll's face glowed purple. Its matted hair was plastered against its fierce features, but Seamus had the distinct feeling the toy was watching him. "It was used recently as a portkey," the agent told him, holding the object back out.

Seamus grabbed it and held it up to his face. The doll was disgusting, having spent time deep in the earth, and he deftly stuck it in a collection bag. Seamus wiped the tiny droplets of sweat off his temples and hoisted himself to his feet. He still hadn't had the time to work through the entire scene, but the cellar was almost clear now that the investigation hadn't led anything but a broken portkey.

"Any thoughts?" the woman wanted to know. She planted her hands firmly on her hips as she took stance beside him.

Seamus nodded, immersing himself in the room. He made a better officer than detective, but now it didn't matter. Anyone who was able and ready was out wandering the city and answering owls and Flooing to suspicious locations – no policing to be done, only collection. It was an honor to his authority and ability to be at a primary scene.

"No specifics yet," he grunted as a reply, "but I figure she left Weasley's flat out of the bushes in the front yard. Went to the phone booth at the end of the street and used an empty soda bottle as her first portkey. That took her here," he gestured to the stone-walled cellar around them, "and waited for a while. There are tread marks over there," Seamus pointed to the corner, "and dug up that doll to use as a second."

"Any clue where that took her?"

"A train car outside Moscow that brought her to Ipatovo and presumably back to The Shop," Seamus repeated, stringing together the errant facts that had been delivered to him throughout the night.

"When was she here?" the agent wanted to know.

"I don't know," Seamus confessed, reaching up to stretch and scratch the back of his head. "I think it might've been right after the attack – she wouldn't want to spend too much time in that booth. It would attract too much attention. She waited here for a few hours, I'm sure. Someone checked the train departures earlier and found there was only one running across Moscow and that was early this morning. She might've left once the sun rose. That's the best I've got."

"Alright," she cleared her throat. "If that's all, I'm going to deliver this back to HQ." The agent picked up the collection bag and held it up for Seamus to seal. Once she did so, she pulled out her wand with long, lean fingers. She smiled at him with crinkled eyes. "See you back there soon."

Seamus nodded at her and turned, searching the room for others. He heard the unmistakable crack of the agent's body being sucked into a vortex and realized he was alone. He fulfilled his duty by walking around the perimeter of the basement, careful not to tread over the existing footprints. There was nothing but cobwebs and dust, illuminated by a tiny window a foot above his head. He gazed up at the sun and let his thoughts drift.

Ginny's face wandered into Seamus' mind, but quickly vanished when there was a whisper behind him, a tickle on the tip of his ear. Seamus spun around, his wand pulled already, but found nothing. It was a closed basement – no way in or out – and that meant there was no reason for anything to touch him. His heart pounded in his neck.

There was nothing.

Shaken, Seamus apparated outside. The sun was still fresh in the sky and gave the empty expanse of field a glow. There was no one there, either. The grass only moved when the wind blew on it. Relaxing, Seamus let his wand arm droop slightly.

There was a gentle popping sound from miles off that immediately tensed Seamus' body. He whirled around, certain that something was afoot, and found nothing. Deciding not to investigate, Seamus apparated again. He found himself back at the offices and was glad. There were shivers still running up his back.

--

Harry woke with the dawn, his eyes opening as the weak rays of light crept in through the curtains. They fell awkwardly on Ginny's peaceful face and he watched them shift and grow for a while. Ginny was beautiful. Ginny was his.

--

Hidalgo appeared suddenly in parlor looking a bit disheveled. His black hair had been blown away from his tanned forehead, making his face seem long and very elegant. His lips were chapped and his clothes were wrinkled. His usual smirk, however, was displayed clearly in his features. He joined a few of his advisors for breakfast, taking his place at the head of his table.

"Hello, gentlemen," his voice was casual and drawling. Hidalgo slid smoothly into his seat and tucked his napkin into his lap.

"You certainly look fresh," Ulysses Nash raised a thick eyebrow in his direction. Everyone at the table wore the same piqued expression. It was always customary that Hidalgo ate his breakfast first – and alone.

Hidalgo flashed him a toothy smile. "When walking, one discovers quite an assortment of things. It took me quite a while to remember to come back to you lot."

"What's all that cryptic bull supposed to mean?" Ulysses challenged. He was fourth in command and was a direct Head. This trust enabled him to push the limits and was rewarded more than not for his attempts. No one else dared speak that way. "Taking a walk," he scoffed, setting down his silverware, "you haven't done that in months."

"I just went out to check on a few loose ends," Hidalgo explained patiently, waiting for someone to question further. He did not want to brag at his success, but under his cool demeanor he did ache to share it.

"What would those be?" David Shale wanted to know. He was a taller man, thin and gaunt, and never spoke much. That was partly why Hidalgo liked him – Shale was subtler than most and only spoke when needed. "Finnigan?" He continued to eat.

"Precisely," Hidalgo said firmly. "As we all have decided, he is our next capture."

"Why not just grab him, then?" Ulysses wanted to know, still holding wonder in his features. "You were alone with him, of course."

"Of course," Hidalgo snapped back, "I would never be that stupid."

"Right," Ulysses agreed amiably. He was barely fazed.

"When the time comes," Hidalgo was staring at him with hard eyes, "I will assign a recon team to snatch Finnigan. Only when it is critical that we need him that I will place that order. Jump a moment too soon and the effect as a whole is spoiled."

Ulysses shrugged in response and David tried to keep his eyes from rolling involuntarily.

"Then why did you follow him?" Ulysses asked after a while. "Isn't that putting it in jeopardy?"

"I suppose, but I'm careful enough," Hidalgo replied, trying to keep the conversation pleasant. The day had been all too well to have it ruined by the likes of Nash. The man acted like an idiot most times, but his extensive knowledge of potions and languages made him extremely handy and secured him a spot close to Hidalgo. He was also very amusing when drunk. "I went to test him. If he caught me then he deserved the kill." He sipped his coffee and continued lazily, "However, as expected, he did not. He was paranoid, at the most."

"When do expect to order the attack?" David asked calmly, his hand reaching for the paper that sat in the middle of the table, unopened.

"In a week or so, when everything has calmed down. Tell your team to be on alert until then." Hidalgo was done with his display and looked at his meal with mild disgust. He realized he did not want to eat, but tell the others of his success.

David nodded in agreement and let his eyes drop to the text in front of him. Ulysses watched his boss lithely exit the room and turned back to his plate. The visit was strange, but not too overdone. Nothing big had been discussed and the two men were free to spend their morning how they liked. They had no idea how explosive the capture would become.

* * *

**A/N: **How'd you like it?? :)

Please leave comments, questions, and suggestions... I really like reading everything and thinking it over. It helps me shape the story so much!

Have a happy rest of the week, everyone.

Katie

PS: Has anyone read Twilight? I finished the entire thing on Monday and discovered I have a thing for vampires. ;)


	19. No Better

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP! :)

**A/N:** Hey guys, updating on time! I have a new system - I write things down in a notebook throughout the week and then type it up on Wednesday nights - and it seems to be working well. Anyway, the Cultural Food Fair went well and this week is AP exams. English Literature is tomorrow... at seven in the morning!

ANYWAY, thank you all so much who reviewed - I really appreciate every one of them. Also, I promise this story is going to pick up soon. I know I've been taking pretty long going over the events in just two or three days, but they are vital. Soon, time will start moving more quickly. :)

Enjoy!

* * *

It took a while, but finally the door swung open. Seamus as greeted heartily – like a hero come home from battle – by a weathered Mr. Weasley. The older man clasped Seamus' hands fully in his own with the exuberance of a child. It was easy to smile and speak freely and Seamus treasured it greatly. It was the kind of familial bond he wished for after nightmares or coming home to find his apartment empty or after another gift-less birthday had passed.

Mr. Weasley led him through the grungy main hall and up the staircase. "You'll find them all here," he assured Seamus in a warm, aged voice. He smiled and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder, pushing him on. Seamus stumbled, but regained his footing and began his way. "Had quite a tussle over breakfast, the four of them, but they're all back to some sort of friendship again. Won't find any trouble, I hope!"

"Thank you, sir," Seamus answered firmly, looking over his shoulder to show Mr. Weasley the gratitude his face held. It was wonderful to be treated as a friend, a son.

"No problem at all," Arthur exclaimed, slightly surprised at the use of formality. However, Seamus Finnigan was quite an exception to the young men he saw today. Seamus did not slouch, drag his feet, wear rumpled clothing, or mumble his words. It made Arthur proud to know him.

Seamus nodded goodbye as his companion took to the stairs again slowly, arthritically. Then, he was alone in the great expanse of hallway. It was eerie standing all alone, listening to the creaks of the stairs receding, being replaced with the soft murmur of voices. Mr. Weasley had said 'four' and Seamus wondered who the last person was.

The first door he came upon was open slightly and revealed a sparse room that was well-lit with the afternoon sun. He recognized Hermione's gentle murmur immediately and he gripped the handle. He would wait for a moment to ensure he wasn't intruding on anything too personal. There was the rumble of a deep male voice, but it belonged to someone foreign – perhaps the fourth guest.

Seamus knocked politely and then thrust his head through the opening. The room's brightness highlighted the face there was almost nothing to it – a fireplace, a table, a few dusty chairs. Hermione occupied one and Charlie sat in the other, a table between them. Both persons seemed a little awed by their visitor, but neither rose to greet him.

Hermione's face melted in relief and turned easily into a smile. She was at peace for the moment and Seamus was glad. "Seamus!" she cried. Carefully setting down the fan of cards she was holding, Hermione pulled her chair away from the game.

"Please," Seamus grinned, holding his hands out in a warding gesture, "don't get up. Don't stop your game at my expense."

"Stop?" Charlie bluffed, "I should think not. I won't quit until I've trounced the little devil. She's won every game so far!" He leaned back in his chair, throwing Hermione a look and stretching his massive arms above his head.

She flushed elegantly. "Luck," she dismissed the hidden compliment with a wave of her hand.

"Pure skill," Charlie countered.

"No doubt about that," Seamus smiled. He walked inside and closed the door to its original position.

"Come to whisk her away so soon, Finny?" Charlie laughed, cracking his knuckles. There was a hint of sadness to his voice, his eyes betraying his confidence.

Seamus nodded and tried not to notice the resentful look ready on Hermione's face. It wasn't meant for him explicitly. "Soon," he replied, "but I've got to speak to Ron first about some arrangements. It should give you enough time to win one."

Charlie winked at Hermione across the table. "Or twice, if we're quick about it."

The tension was eased as soon as the words had been spoken. The fact she was leaving had been acknowledged and everyone had chosen to hide their disappointment about it. They may as well enjoy the time they had. Time was precious.

"You're going to speak with Harry as well?" Hermione resumed her cards as Charlie shuffled the deck deftly.

Seamus raised a thick eyebrow. His heart thudded uncertainly in his chest, panic blooming in the pit of his stomach. Surely he had heard the phrasing incorrectly. "Why would I speak to Harry? He's got nothing to do with this." His tongue was thick and dry against his teeth.

Hermione balked for a moment and Seamus did not take her expression well. "He's here, Seamus," she told him slowly, thinking over his puzzling question. The answer dawned on her in a moment. "Oh! Yes, that's right – you left before he came." She shrugged. "Well, point is, he's in the common room up the hall is you need him. I'm sure he'd love to catch up. I'd love the extra time."

Seamus felt himself suddenly go cold. It swept through him so rapidly; he did not have time to realize how stiff he had become. His jaw was locked tightly – the muscle bulging – and his fingers curled into his palms angrily. Harry was at Grimmauld Place, probably only a few rooms away, probably waiting for him.

Perhaps Ginny had contacted him – told him it was over… perhaps that was why Mr. Weasley had treated him with such kindness and familiarity. Or maybe Ginny had changed her mind – called on Harry to come and rescue her. She didn't know that Seamus had come back. Possibly she had conned them both. It was impossible to tell, but he strongly felt that his first thought was the best.

"You alright, mate?" Charlie asked after a brief silence had passed. His face was stony, he was acting as if he knew what Seamus was thinking.

"…Yes," it was hard to force the word out; because it was quite obvious Seamus was far from being fine.

Hermione glanced up from her deck and was surprised by the sudden change in mood. "You look a bit peaky, Seamus," her voice was critical and slightly worried.

It took effort to shake his head, but eventually Seamus accomplished the task.

"Probably just wary from his trip," Charlie quickly explained away Seamus' weird behavior. "Poor man has been running about for so long, he probably doesn't even remember how to relax. Perhaps he should include him in our game so I can have someone to take advantage of."

This made Hermione's smile return. Dread seemed to run densely through his veins as Seamus stood rooted to his place. Not only was he going to have to face the man who held claim over the woman who entranced him, but Charlie knew about it. If Charlie knew, then surely Bill did too, and Fleur, and Mrs. Weasley…

Charlie glanced over his shoulder nonchalantly and glared at Seamus. "Maybe," he said through gnashed teeth, "you'd prefer to sit for awhile. Gin is reading in the sitting room down the hall. She'd make space for you."

Seamus swallowed. "Yes," he agreed in a troubled murmur. "I think that'd be a good idea. Just rest up for awhile."

"Take your time," Hermione told him, her real interest in the cards.

"Yes," Charlie agreed. "Don't rush things."

Seamus again nodded and turned, feeling the heat of the sunshine vanish from his body. Again he was alone in the darkened hallway. His steps were quick and hasty. He found his grasp was shaky around the door handle. There were no voices and Seamus assumed it was the sitting room. His chest hurt with every breath he took.

Seamus sighed at the first sight of Ginny's vibrant red hair, his shoulders drooping considerably. The room was arranged so that the chair Ginny rested in faced away from the door, instead facing her towards the grandiose bookshelves she had chosen her reading from. She turned swiftly to peer over the back of the armchair when she heard the door creak. Ginny looked astounded to see him.

"Seamus?" her voice was merely a shocked whisper. "I didn't think you'd be back so soon."

Seamus crossed the room hesitantly at first, drawing courage from the way she said his name. Their relationship was unsteady and fragile and most likely wrong, but those thoughts vanished in the first few moments he saw her set, beautiful face. He treasured those very seconds with sick pleasure.

"I came to move Ron and Hermione to their new place – they made it sound like you already knew that," he told her, his lips desperately hiding a smile.

Ginny shook her head and closed her text. "Yes, of course I knew they were leaving. I just didn't think it would be you to take them." She shrugged, trying to cast off the uncomfortable shivers that ran over her arms. "You said you might not come back for a while."

"It was last minute," Seamus lied. His intention by leaving Grimmauld Place early was to distance himself from Ginny, to allow that time to convince him that the tiny crush meant nothing at all. However, he couldn't stop seeing her smile, smelling hints of her everywhere, hearing her lilting voice in crowded conversations. He had done everything but beg Viktor to let him work the small assignment. She was addicting.

"Oh," was all that Ginny could reply. She looked at her hands.

"Don't worry," Seamus continued, confused. She wasn't happy to see him. She hadn't even looked at him. There was a slight annoyance to his voice. "I'll be gone soon after. I have a mission that should last a few weeks. You won't have to worry about me popping up again."

Ginny recoiled from the sharpness. He stepped closer to her, his pulse pounding hot in his body. His thoughts hummed in his ears.

"Seamus," she said his name softly.

"I tried to say goodbye once already," Seamus said earnestly, closing the gap between them. "I've found that I'm pretty incapable of keeping my word."

Ginny stared at him with a scared sort of wonder. She was grasping for words, but they kept slipping through her shaky fingers. She felt his warm, solid hands grip her shoulders firmly.

"N-"

Seamus pressed his lips on her, moving and pushing them with want. Ginny moved without thinking, the scene becoming a foggy blur. She pushed him away with a swift shove.

"What are you thinking?" she hissed, feeling her eyes moisten with anger and guilt. She took a few steps backward that made her intentions very clear. She didn't want to be near him. The gesture pained Seamus greatly and he tensed, shame and rejection rushing in his blood. Her fingers shook as she traced the outline of her lips.

Seamus wavered. What had he done? It was unmistakable – Ginny did not want him. The horrified look on her face was evidence enough. Why hadn't he thought his actions out more carefully? Why had he been so stupid?

"I thought…" his throat was tight.

Ginny vehemently shook her head. "Forget whatever it is you thought I wanted! Things are changing." Seamus moved to come closer again, but she backed away, crying, "Don't! Just stay where you are."

"What the hell are you thinking, Gin? I honestly have no idea anymore – do you know that I –"

"Harry is here, Seamus," Ginny interrupted with malice and fear laced in her voice. "He's here in the next room and isn't leaving again. He promised me that. You can't just do that now." Part of her heart cried for him. She hated saying the words; hated having to pain him, but it had to be done.

"So that's what you meant by 'everything's changing,'" Seamus growled. "You just used me until the man you really cared about took the time to notice you again, compliment you, promise you things that everyone knows he has no control over." His knees locked beneath his rigid weight.

"I didn't use you!" Ginny snapped, her chest burning. Her expression softened a hint. "I never meant to do that, I know you understand. He just came back. I didn't know." She shifted warily in front of him. "It's not like anything was set in stone between us."

"So I'm supposed to sympathize with you," Seamus answered coldly, his arms crossing his chest in a defensive stance. "I'm going to be the best friend, the shoulder to lean on. I'm going to have to pretend that I'm not completely infatuated with you, that I don't think about you everywhere I go. It's that simple, is it?"

"Seamus!" Ginny shouted out of exasperation. "Please!"

"No," he answered in an angry voice.

"Haven't you ever been in love?" Ginny asked. "And felt what I'm feeling now? Don't you know that I'd do anything for him? I don't mean to hurt you – I just don't want to hurt him more."

"Everyone I love is dead."

His words were final and hung thick in the air. Ginny was in a haze.

"I'm sorry, Seamus. Truly, I am. I never meant for this to happen."

"I'm sorry, too," Seamus' voice was shaking. "Sorry that I ever came back."

And with those last sentiments, Seamus swiftly exited the room.

--

The ruffling of the cards sounded like a flock of birds had entered the room, their wings vibrantly lifting and lowering in unison. Hermione imagined the scene and the comical look on Charlie's face for the second or so her eyes closed. When the faux-flapping ceased, Hermione stretched and went to look upon her hand. The game was simple, nondescript and it passed the time quite well.

They played at a small table, facing each other over the deck in the center. It gave Hermione time to catch uncensored glimpses of the lines that had taken years to permanently etch themselves around Charlie's mouth and eyes. He still smiled like a child, though, and reminded her of past days. Charlie was still strong, grounded, and seemingly content with his surroundings. It made conversation come easy and light.

"I'm glad to see you and Ron getting along again," his voice was naturally low and gravelly, pleasant to her ears.

Hermione grinned, trying not to flush. She knew the subject would appear sooner or later, but she had foolishly hoped for later."Yes."

"I heard how rocky it was for awhile there," Charlie went on, laying down his first move.

The redness appeared on her cheeks, trailing down her neck in noticeable splotches.

"Everything was very vague," he assured her with a smile. "Gin didn't say much, except that you two would work it out eventually. Just happy to see you did."

"Thank you," Hermione replied warily, feeling slightly foolish. Of course Charlie wouldn't want all the gory details.

Her eyes dipped upward for just a moment and almost drew away when she found Charlie staring very intently at her face.

"It was very hard, wasn't it?"

Hermione's eyes flew back down to her clasped hands. "Extremely," she whispered.

"Ron's not the most sensitive of blokes," he tried to lighten the mood so he could continue with his questions.

Hermione gurgled with gentle laughter. "Not at all." She felt a certain claim on him and looked at Charlie fully, old, familiar defense rushing down her back. She had become used to explaining Ron's impulsive behavior when they had been dating, engaged. The ancient compulsion to shield him from teasing came slowly and unsurely.

"But he's been very good to me, too," she told Charlie with wide, urgent eyes. "Considering all that's happened, I'm very lucky to have recovered when I did. I can talk, read, write, and soon…" she grinned, "walk. That's mostly because of him."

"I wasn't disputing that," Charlie assured her, laying down his next card. "He's a very talented potions master. He'd make an excellent Healer, no doubt about it."

"Why didn't he?" Hermione swallowed, playing the trivial game without really thinking. "Why didn't he go into the medical department when I left? I know that's what he really wanted and I know that he's more than qualified."

Charlie knew the answer before she had even finished asking it. It rested thick on his tongue, his jaw tightly shut. He was debating whether or not to reveal one of the very few secrets his brother had confessed to. It was very personal, but when he saw the worry and speculation in her eyes, he could not stop himself.

"Ron wanted to," he began, "and he earned his titles, too – managed to study even after you left. Mungos was already offering him a salary – a pretty hefty one, at that. He decided to go through with it – figured it might give him a fresh start.

"He ended up being accepted into their O.C. unit – Order Casualties – the one that takes all the Order agents that have been wounded in battle. He figured it would keep him close to the cause."

Charlie sighed and rubbed the back of his head.

"So he did practice –" Hermione's voice was awed.

"Let me finish," Charlie interrupted, laying down his whole deck in a sigh of defeat. "He was only there for a day – not even that. Poor kid was nervous and sick and scared. He just left before his shift was up. No one knew what his deal was. Practically had to force this out of him, but Ron said he would never face another patient until –" his voice trailed off.

Hermione waited for a while. She grew impatient when her question had not been fully answered. She felt the right to know what had happened to him – she knew so little to begin with. "Until _what_, Charlie?" she snapped.

"Until he heard any news of you," Charlie snapped back tiredly. "He said he wasn't going to practice until your body was found. He just couldn't handle the thought that one day he might walk into his wing and find you in one of those beds, dead or dying." Charlie leaned back in his seat, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Of course, this was back when he still admitted he loved you. When he got bitter about it, he was too afraid that he would _want_ to find you there."

Hermione reeled with the new information. She remembered the sleepy conversations she and Ron had, when the moonbeams were strewn across her unwashed pillow case, when Ron had spoken with grandeur about the gravity of helping people. He had always wanted to be a doctor of some sort, always wanted to fix things. She had always thought she would be there when he donned the blue Healers' robes, hear his first diagnosis. That had come and passed and she had been gone and it hurt.

Charlie shook his head, wanting to clear the air again. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I didn't mean for this all to come out. He asked me not to repeat it to anyone. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else. I thought you should know, though. He really tried once you left, but he couldn't function. You were his everything."

Hermione felt terrible guilt settle in her chest. It was hard to breathe and Charlie's wan face wavered in front of her eyes. "I honestly didn't mean to, Charlie," her voice was raspy. "I had no idea."

"I know," Charlie assured her again, his eyes sad. He took her hand softly and then let it go. "All we can do is just move on. Ron holds his grudges pretty well, but he'll get over it. Maybe he'll even go back to St. Mungos after all this has passed. I doubt it very much, but I can still hope."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, pretending to be hopeful. "After all this is behind us. Maybe."

Charlie resumed his smile and his cards thoughtfully. He hadn't meant to reveal so much, but it felt good in some strange way. She knew now and that was all he could do. He looked forward to seeing them together again – their partnership was not disputable in the least.

"Are you ready to go?" Seamus' voice barked from the doorway. Hermione's head jerked up suddenly. "Well, are you?"

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it?? I thought I would reveal some more of Ron's back story - shed some light on why he's so upset and angry. I went back to some previous chapters to make sure it all fits... but if you find something that contradicts another part, please let me know!! :)

And PS: I'm reading Eclipse now... the series is SO ADDICTING! I really like Jacob Black... I think it would be cooler to be a werewolf than a vampire, honestly. But I would rather date a vampire. Haha. :) Plus, I really like Jasper.

Leave me comments, questions, and critiques! And have a great rest of the week, everyone.

Katie


	20. Adrift

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hey guys! I'm down to the last week of school. Commencement is next Thursday night! Our robes are red... ew. Anyway, I've been pretty busy lately. Writing my senior thesis, making sure I'm not failing any classes, teaching small children French, handing out invitations to grad parties. It's been fun, but I really look forward to the mindless hours I can spend at the computer, working on my stories. :)

To answer some questions... someone asked if I had a plot for the story. Haha, yes, I do. It's very vague - more like an outline, if anything - and I just follow my notes and let the situations develop. Like, I have a clear picture of the end chapter already laid out. I think it's easier and more fun to fill in the blanks as I write - it feels more natural, less forced. And to another who asked for more Hr/R... it definately coming!! :):)

Thanks for reading this, everyone. I really appreciate all of you. Enjoy!!

* * *

She wavered for a moment, her legs rigid beneath her, waiting for the wobbly sickness to pass. Feeling a hand press lightly on her shoulder, Hermione slowly opened her eyes. She blinked tightly against the bright, brilliant sunshine that seemed to pervade her vision from all around. She went to shield her face, but found that the quickness of the movement rocked her body and made the nauseous unbalance return.

Ron steadied her with both hands now. Their portkey had given them a rough ride and no one in the trio was really sure of their footing at the moment. He looked to Seamus with questions practically written across his face.

"Where are we?" Hermione's unusually strong voice rang out and echoed through the room, surprising Ron.

"Home," Seamus answered simply. He grimaced against the light, turning his back on his friends.

"Why is it so damned bright?" Ron wanted to know.

"No blinds," the other man replied.

"Where _are_ we?" Hermione outright demanded this time, annoyed that her question had been ignored. Seamus had been testy with her ever since he showed up at Grimmauld Place and she was quickly losing her patience. The blinding sunlight and Seamus' sarcastic repose did not improve her mood.

"I'm not exactly sure," Seamus rubbed at his eyes. Glancing about, he observed tanned sandalwood furniture and clean open spaces. The whole place smelled earthy – like fresh, green plants and warmed wood. There was also a trace of sharp salt, which puzzled him.

"What do you mean?" Hermione gaped at him, her vision returning slowly. She snapped her head back and forth – her stomach rolling, but her mind racing – and found nothing recognizable. This irritated her as well.

Seamus shrugged and was genuinely baffled. "I was never told where I was taking you – I guess I didn't think about it. Viktor just handed me the portkey and sent me on my way. Never said a word about it."

"Shouldn't we have the right to know where we are?" Ron frowned.

Seamus wheeled around to face him. "It's a _hideaway_," he spat disdainfully; "no one should know where you are. If we went around telling everyone where you sleep at night, it kind of defeats the purpose of keeping you here at all." The anger in his words was not really meant for the pair, but Seamus felt his resolve fading rapidly.

"They don't trust that we'll keep our mouths shut, is that it?" Ron challenged, his face darkening.

"Of course not!" Seamus bit.

Before Ron had the chance to retaliate, Hermione shocked them both by interjecting in a remarkably calm voice.

"It's really that serious," she looked up to Seamus with fear that was only suppressed by morbid curiosity. "Viktor wouldn't even tell you, and if you don't even get to know, then… this… _thing_ is larger than I thought. There are so many secrets now."

The brief, melancholy speech rendered both men incapable of remembering their hot words. Seamus was the first to move, whispering, "There have always been secrets.

"Viktor puts your safety above a lot of other things. The Shop found you out twice already and they are obviously not going to let you slip away. They know now about Ron and could possibly use that against us if they wanted to. No one wants to take that risk, even if it _is_ just Ron."

He threw a grim grin to him and Ron answered by rolling his eyes, but relaxing his stance some. "That's all very well and good," Ron drawled, "we're all for the heroics and saving lives and keeping Viktor's conscience intact. But when do we get to go back to Lawrence? See our families again?"

"Not for a very long time, I'm guessing," Seamus replied evenly, tensing. He was absolutely sure about his words and did not want to waste time arguing it out with Ron. He was not in the mood, to say the least.

"Very specific!" Ron exclaimed, not bothering to hide the sarcasm and contempt rushing through him.

"Alright," Seamus shouted, all previous traces of ease erasing themselves from his hardened face, "how about I come get you when we've finally killed every last bloody traitor the Shop has? That suit your time frame, Weasley?"

Ron advanced, snarling. "Not exactly, _Finnigan_, seeing as how it'll probably take the next ten years to earn the chance to hold a wand to the bastards' throats. This is only judging on the progress you and Viktor have made so far, of course! What happened at the flat was only an example of your… superior skills."

"At least I'm not wallowing about in my basement all day," Seamus rose to the challenge, baring his teeth. Color rose in his neck quickly. "At least I'm out there _trying_."

"You know I'd be out there the second Viktor asked me to," Ron seethed, smarting horrifically from the jab. His fists curled forcefully into themselves. All Seamus had to do was make the first move and Ron would wallop him.

"And you know he never would," Seamus replied harshly, "not after your mistakes. Why do you think he assigned you to her?" He thrust his hand in Hermione's direction. She stood quietly, as if she were stone. She wanted to know.

"Because I'm qualified!" Ron burst, his eyebrows raised in question, "And you said I was first on her contact list!"

"Bullshit!" Seamus bellowed, a smile twisting across his contorted mouth. "He didn't want you ruining another assignment. He didn't know which department to stick you in without completely shattering your accreditations! So he put you in charge of babysitting. That's all you were capable of. No one could mess up watching after a coma patient, though you nearly proved us all wrong."

Hermione winced at the brutal truth, but to Ron the words only fueled the anger that boiled in his chest. It was an old suspicion of his confirmed – the question of his worth, his competency revealed publically – and he hated Seamus for that. Especially for announcing it in front of the one person he thought he would never live up to. Rage unleashed itself and Ron vaguely felt it tearing through his very core as he launched himself at Seamus.

Seamus, surprised at his actions, was taken off guard. He had no intention of driving Ron to madness, but he couldn't stop himself. He was knocked sideways by a smart blow to the face. In a moment, he felt Ron kick his knees out beneath him. Seamus crumbled to the floor, not able to say anything.

Hermione watched the intense skirmish unfold before her with wide, astonished eyes. Her body would not move. "Boys!" she shouted over the cacophony of grunts and cursing. Of course they did not stop and she could not stop them. She was still overcome by the animosity the two friends had displayed.

The fight was violent – more so than the subject called for. Seamus pulled Ron to his feet by the front of his shirt and landed a punch on his ear. As the blood began to flow, Ron dizzily began swiping anywhere his fists could land. He managed to knock the air of his counterpart and they tumbled to the floor. Seamus gained the advantage by rolling on top quickly, but Ron soon threw him to the side and kneed him in the chest. They rolled and shouted bloody murder, the balance of power shifting chaotically. Eventually they clambered to their feet again and Ron sent Seamus reeling into a wall. Seamus wiped the blood from his nose and used the fist to throw off Ron's claw-like fingers reaching for his neck.

Seamus was thick with disciplined muscle, but Ron had been trained as an Auror, too. Ron had been taught early on by four older brothers how to fight dirty, but Seamus had been actively training for years. Neither had an advantage. However, Ron seemed to glow under the sheen of sweat. His training came back quickly – how to tuck the thumb into the palm when forming a fist meant for punching, how to bring down an elbow to the center of a sternum, how to expect a hit and roll away. He was awkward and clumsy – giving Seamus what seemed an upper hand – but the sheer force behind the blows was unnerving. When the men could no longer muster the burning energy necessary for quick ducks and dives and punches, they resorted to bearlike squeezes and elbows and furious threats.

When the blood began to pool seriously and the screams of pain became extremely real and frustrated, Hermione interjected again. Her fright had multiplied to such an extent that her own hurt cries could not remain in her throat. "_Stop!_" her voice had reached its limits and filled the room with shrill, panicked shrieking. "Both you, stop it this instant! _You're going to kill each other! Stop!_"

Ron froze and it only took Seamus a few moments to realize that her hoarse screaming was bordering on pure fear. Shame poured through them, feeling foolish that they should have to be reproved by Hermione like schoolboys. They backed away while eyeing each other savagely. The room fell eerily silent, the tenseness humming all around them. Ron placed himself far from Hermione and felt embarrassment rippling down his back.

"Better," Hermione whispered. She took a few haggard, limping steps forward so that she would stand between the two men, discourage another fight. Her hands were perched on her hips shakily, assuming the position of authority.

No one spoke again for awhile. Seamus wiped at his blackened eye, trying to keep himself from wincing. Ron spat blood into the corner. They leered across the expanse, but neither dared incite another brawl. The adrenaline had vanished and the only things remaining now were memories of sore words thrumming in their ears.

"Now," Hermione began again, her voice wavering. "That's all settled. Perhaps you ought to leave, Seamus." She faced him, her eyes pleading for him to get away. Nothing good could come of further conversation.

Seamus nodded curtly, straightening his stained collar with stiff, bruised hands. "Yes," he replied in a low growl. "I should."

Ron glared at him, not trusting himself with words. Vengeance was the only thought in his mind and it ached through his body warmly. It replaced the sting of his wounds with short spasms of anger.

"However," Seamus added in a businesslike tone, only regarding Hermione, "there are some things I need to go over with you before I go."

"I'm extraneous," Ron bit sharply. Without looking for the confirmation in Seamus' watery eyes, he turned to stalk from the room. He had no idea where the next room would take him, but it would take him away and that was all he needed.

Seamus sensed the abhorrence that seemed to radiate from Hermione's very being and did not hold it against her. He knew the whole argument had reflected very badly upon him – knowing exactly where Ron's weak spots were and aiming directly for them. He hadn't meant to, but there was no way of conveying his thoughts to Hermione now, even if he knew how to put them into words.

So, he continued with business. "Neither of you are to write to anyone – not even to the Order. You won't receive any mail in return. If we need to get in touch with you, Viktor will appear in person."

"And if we want to get in touch with you?" her demeanor was icy.

"That won't be possible," Seamus shook his head, ignoring the cricks in his neck, empathy stinging at his chest. "You aren't allowed to communicate with anyone until Viktor says it's alright."

Hermione sighed sadly, angrily. "I don't understand this – any of it! It's positively ludicrous."

"It's a Head official order. No one can change it but Viktor Krum himself. I wish I could though, truly."

"It seems so over the top!"

"He's gone to greater lengths," Seamus replied flippantly. "Look at Neville."

The sour look on her face did not recede. She did not speak, too infuriated with her inability to understand her situation.

Seamus' eyes darted about as his body weakened. He wouldn't leave until he was asked again – he didn't want to be rude – but the silence was buzzing in his pulsing head. He needed to sit down. The air was thick with dust – a sure sign the place had been abandoned some time ago – and it only added to the dreamlike quality of the room. Seamus felt himself sway, relaxing.

"Is there anything else?" Hermione' surly growl interrupted his revere.

Seamus snapped to attention, clearing is aching throat. "Yes, there's only a few more… suggestions."

"Restrictions, you mean."

He sighed, letting his bruised shoulders slump. "Please don't go outside after dark. There's a town some fifty miles away, but don't visit it unless you need help and Viktor doesn't appear. I don't believe this will ever occur, so refrain from traveling. Limit your time outdoors to only a few hours at a time. Don't answer the door if it sounds – it should never do that."

"But what if it does?" Hermione's face was angry and helpless. "How do we let you know? At least back at Ron's place we had friends – protectors."

"Viktor will know everything that goes on here," Seamus' voice was assuring. "Don't ask me how, but he'll keep you safe – that's a promise."

"I don't want it," she replied, turning away with her arms folded against her chest. "I'd rather put my life at risk to be able to see my family again. I've been gone for so long already, Seamus. My parents celebrated my birthday alone for four years now, still bought me presents that I have yet to open. They have no idea where I am – and now I'm safe and not allowed to tell them?" She wheeled back to face him, tears pricking her eyes. "I can barely remember what they look like anymore. Memories begin to fade the moment they're over. I can't stay here forever."

"You won't," Seamus answered, guilt searing deep in his heart.

Hermione moved towards the door Ron had left through.

"Bullshit."

--

The paper had grown soft with repeated folding and creasing. It was browned and aged and small in the palm of Viktor's broad, rough hands. His back hunched as he heaved a great sigh, feeling the worn edge dig into his fingers.

Viktor stood in front of the vast expanse of fireplace in his dim office. It lined the back wall, engulfing it in intricate brickwork and marbled mantle. The fire was large and vibrant – the only source of light in the entire room. His fingers deftly opened the note again, as he had doing all afternoon – opening and closing the last trace of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. He was entirely sure in his decision to hide them, but hesitant to dispose of the records. It was something that had to be done and something that was final.

Viktor's slanting eyes crawled desperately over the tiny, perfect print:

_Abandoned Villa _

_Costa De La Muerte, Spain_

_Untraceable – 7 years_

Finally, Viktor crumpled the note and offered it to the hungry, enticing flames. As the paper left his hand, he felt fear spread through him. He wished he had read it again, scared that he had missed the spelling and doomed the couple to an entire life of separation. The hearth spit out its acceptance in a loud crackle and burst of young, blue licks of fire. A sense of dreary conclusiveness filled him. He would let the fire burn for several hours, before collecting the ash and separating it forever. No one would ever know.

The door behind him opened and closed sometime later. Viktor took his time turning to face his guest. What was done was done – no going back. He was no surprised to find Seamus scowling on the other side of his desk.

"Finnigan," Viktor tilted his head in brief welcome.

"Krum," Seamus' voice was clipped.

"That's quite a shiner you've got," he was cool, passive. "And that's a nasty split lip."

Seamus flinched as his fingers flew up to confirm the sickly bruise that hovered above his eye. He did not speak, but flushed.

"Mind telling me how you go it?" One of his thick eyebrows raised in mild curiosity.

"Not especially," Seamus growled.

Viktor began assembling himself again – squaring his shoulders, ruffling uninterestedly through the cluttered paperwork on his desk, humming. "No matter," he replied, "I already know." He took a seat.

Seamus followed suit. "How?" he demanded, an edge pervading his voice. His fingers instinctively curled themselves over the armrests of the chair.

"I'm not quite sure I'm at liberty to entertain you with that information. You didn't want to share with me. It's only fair."

"Knock it off," Seamus snapped at Viktor's coy jab. "Tell me."

Viktor shrugged, his eyes trained on the pages in front of him. "Gus saw everything."

"Gus?" Seamus sounded more confused than nasty. "The dog…?"

Viktor nodded in affirmation quietly.

"But…" Seamus stuttered, "I thought that… that _you_ were Gus. I _saw_ you transform – how can that be?"

"Oh, I was Gus quite often – on lunch breaks, holidays, on lonely nights. Dogs are very warm creatures."

"But," Seamus seemed to be completely flabbergasted. "…How? I've never heard of such a thing."

"Simple," Viktor's voice was frustratingly light, "the dog is a portal. Yes, he's still an animal, but think of him more as a… host. He lets us in his mind and body whenever we need to. I can manipulate his thoughts, actions, even physical being whenever I want. Not that I do – rarely at best – I like letting him act like the mutt he is. I choose to listen and watch."

Seamus was quiet for a while, thinking hard. He was baffled, but had long ago accepted the fact that many of the things Viktor did were inexplicable, but necessary. Using a dog as a one-way mirror into the private lives of his friends was not too far gone.

"Whose watching them now? A special task force?" he was shaky and irritable.

"Someone I trust," Viktor was firm. It was clear that he would say nothing else on the matter.

Seamus rolled his eyes. "I feel incompetent," he told Viktor. "They blame me, you know, for having no idea where they are. I couldn't tell them, so automatically it's my fault! I acted like a bloody fool in front of Hermione, fighting like I was still a teenager." He pressed his hands to his temples. "I can't even be trusted to know who is ensuring their very safety – do you know how humiliating that is? How much it's taking me _not _to scream?"

Viktor sat calmly and waited as Seamus' breath grew less harsh. He folded his arms and leaned slightly over his desk. "Perhaps you should take a few weeks off, Finnigan." He shook his head as if he was disappointed. "I don't want to offer it – not now – but I can't afford not to. You've been acting sporadic recently – hot and cold – and it's quite alarming. I want to know you're fit to do your job to its fullest, especially after what's happened."

"I'm not leaving," Seamus hissed in reply. That's all he could muster civilly.

"I'm not exactly offering anymore," Viktor flared at him. "Now, I'm ordering."

"You can't!" Seamus bellowed, lurching halfway out of his seat. "You can't."

"Two weeks, minimum," Viktor commanded, his features set gravelly.

"I'm the best goddamn agent you have," he snarled. "You should be assigning me to a bigger case, not taking me out of the picture completely. You're only jeopardizing yourself."

"Two weeks," Viktor repeated. "And then I've got a mission for you. It can wait fourteen days."

"Hell, why just a mission?" Seamus cried, flinging his arms out wildly, "Why not launch a whole attack? That's the only way things get done, anyway! The Shop can do it, why not us? Then I'll take a fucking vacation!"

"I've been seriously considering it," Viktor replied smoothly. Seamus froze, eyes wide. "However, it cannot be done until I've confirmed that all my agents are ready. The ambush The Shop launched yesterday was ill thought-out and understaffed. I won't put any of my employees in that kind of silly, preventable danger."

"What?" Seamus whispered, dropping his arms limply to his sides.

"You're going to get what you want, Finnigan," Viktor glanced up at him calmly. "You just have to be patient for a while. Now get out of my office."

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it?? I hope so.

To clear up any confusion about Gus and Viktor - the dog wasn't Viktor. The dog was a dog, only he opened himself for the use of Viktor and his 'special friend.' Ron finding him wasn't a coincidence. And to those who may be confused as to why Viktor is scared of burning the location of Ron and Hermione, though he has access to them anytime he wants... I figure that you have to program a portkey with an exact, specific place in mind. You have to know the address to go to the destination - like Floo powder, you know? Haha okay.

Have a great rest of the week, everyone!

Katie


	21. All These Things

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone! I'm sorry about the delay, really. It's just... summer has just begun! In the past two weeks I've graduated, registered for college classes, set up a checking account, got settled in the library for my work-study program, made some money at my part-time job at the theatre, and stayed out every night since I recieved my diploma being an all-around hoodrat. It's been really fun.

Anyway, won't bore you with anymore details. This chapter is NOT a continuation of the incident the past few chapters have been describing. Four months have passed and this is how life has carried on since. Going back to the usual Ron/Hermione based text has been fun - sorry to all those who have been missing it!! :) Enjoy!

* * *

The sand was fine and pale on her feet. It flew gracefully like wings with each quick step she took. Eventually the ground became more constant, hard. It formed into sharper rocks and then large, sea-smoothed boulders. Over the months she picked her way across the shore, her feet had grown accustomed to the change in texture and barely noticed it now. Minding the dips and gaps she knew well, Hermione leaped and landed in the safe places. She had no idea where she was going, but knew it wouldn't be far. Her time was almost up.

Finally she came upon the small valley a few miles away from home. The rivet was hidden among the larger rocks, but it led right to the ocean. She couldn't stay away. It was sand-filled with touches of tall grass that had faded with the season. Hermione sat in the middle of the bay, plunging her toes into the sand and setting her eyes on the hazy sunset. The water was calm tonight, lapping mildly at the shore.

It was a sight like this that made Hermione study it carefully. She would be gone from this place soon, she was sure, and wanted to take with her the beauty that made her situation bearable. She had already memorized the way the black clouds rolled slowly over the sky before a thunderstorm came, the way Gus lumbered around the living room when he was excited, how Ron's hair was like fire when he stood beneath the blazing afternoon sun, even the way the smoke curled slowly out the kitchen window when dinner was being made. Hermione only wanted to keep these things as memories. All the beauty in the world could not destroy her hope of home.

November had crept up on her days ago by tainting the wind with a slight chill. It had been four months exactly since Hermione and Ron had arrived at the forgotten shack. While Ron kicked the sand off the cement porch, her father would be shoveling the fine layer of snow off the walk. While she slept comfortably with nothing more than a sheet, Ginny would be layered in flannel and bringing her feet up to curve with the rest of her body. A twinge of jealousy shook her, made her blink. Viktor surely had to be coming soon. Hermione knew that he would not let half a year pass without word or rescue.

The stay was frustratingly indefinite, but Hermione mused it could be much worse. The first few weeks had been long and lonely. Ron was quiet and aggravated for the most part, slamming doors and kicking Gus out of his path. Hermione would awake in the night to cursing and strange sounds coming through her bedroom wall. It was frightening. The only redeemable quality Ron had those days was his ability to cook. Hermione could pass off eggs and salads, but Ron could create three course meals. Not that he would, but his food was delicious anyway.

Hermione cringed as his voice rang through her mind, yelling that she was too slow, too boring, not helpful enough. She had shrieked back, of course, unable to maintain her passivity. The endless fights had taken a toll on her effervescence. Soon they were both miserable, incapable of enjoying their time together, alone.

The wind blew Hermione's curls into her face. She sighed and smiled, drawing her fingers through her hair. It was longer now – about to her chin – and she liked it. Ron had done a nicely with the frayed edges and brittle strands. Her grin grew wider as the memory drew her in, sucked her away from the dune she sat on.

_The heat was stifling. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck and shoulders and stomach and legs. Even with all the windows open and a paper fan crunched tightly in her fist, the air continued to swelter all around her. She could almost see the space around Ron's forehead warp. The boiling temperature and blazing sun drove the pair mad – finding shade even indoors was nearly impossible. The windows around the house were wide and many._

_Ron groaned from down the hall and then Hermione heard the slam of his bedroom door. As she walked past, the wincing squeaks of cheap blinds being closed almost made her scream. Nothing was going right – the house was a mess, the food from breakfast smelled all the way from the kitchen, Gus had wandered off on his morning walk, Ron was irritable, and she had run out of new material to read. The sweat continued to pool on her body, weighing down her hair. The few strands that were long enough tickled the back of her neck constantly. She would grab them and shove them to the side, wet her hand in the sink and try to slick it back, even took twine to tie it back._

_Hermione limped into the bathroom, her feet still very awkward and unsteady. She tripped over Ron's used towel and howled as she hit the tile. Angrily, she stood and snatched the scissors from the cabinet above the sink. Stealing a glance at her sun-burnt, teary face, Hermione grimaced. No wonder Ron couldn't stand to be around her – she was hideous. Her fingers trembled as they held the scissors and shakily ripped through the bottom layer of her hair. The leftovers tumbled down the back of her shirt and tickled the sensitive skin._

_Hermione dared another tortured look in the mirror and tears sprang to her eyes. Her hair was jagged and wavy and uneven. Knees shaking, she slipped to the floor to cry with her face buried lightly in her sweaty palms. Nothing was right, nothing at all. It was silly to be so emotional over a few ruined locks and as she began to recognize it, Hermione grew even more distraught at finding herself so ridiculous._

_Her crying faded soon after – her body was too exhausted to do much – and Hermione wiped her eyes with the back of her fists. Her hands dropped to the cool tile floor as the rest of her heaved a tired, resigned sigh. Blinking, she turned her face upwards._

_She jumped. Ron was leaning against the doorframe, his head cocked in interest. There was a hint of a smirk playing on his lips._

_"What," his voice was trying to stay steady, but Hermione could tell he was dying to smile, "what have you done?"_

_She scowled in response, sending the scissors skittering across the floor. They hit the wall very close to Ron's bare feet. He looked down, observing them, and then turned out of sight. Hermione listened as his back thumped against the wall. She heard a snort and then muffled chuckling._

_"It's not funny!" she shouted angrily. Her hands curled into fists._

_Ron dipped back into sight and let his hand drop from his mouth. His laughter filled the bathroom and bounced around, magnifying his deep voice. Hermione's anger was forgotten for a moment as she took in the sound. It was the first time he had genuinely laughed since she had woken up. It made it seem like the days Before. _

_Ron tumbled against the door and nearly collapsed, gasping for breath between giggles. He doubled over and laughed and laughed. She looked so absurd, so totally incredible. Sprawled out on the floor with her hair muddled and her cheeks red and tears not yet dried all over, Hermione was a mess. It was funny, because he was a mess, too. Inside and out, they were both cluttered and confused and it could not get any worse. Laughter was a sign that Ron had accepted it. He and Hermione were stuck together in that godforsaken shack forever, red and burned and unhappy and chaotic._

_"Stop!" she demanded, her eyes darting nervously to him. "I said stop it. Quit laughing- you've had your fun, now go!"_

_"Dear God, Hermione," Ron panted, settling against the wall with his shoulders hunched and his hands tight around his waist. "What happened?"_

_"Nothing!" Hermione cried, brows furrowing._

_They stared at each other for a while, breathing evening._

_"Nothing?" he asked._

_Hermione began to rise to her feet, grasping at the ledge of the sink. Her arms wobbled dangerously as she stood. Her elbows locked under the weight and Hermione tumbled to the side. Ron was by her side, hands guiding her to the toilet seat._

_"Doesn't look like nothing," he chided confidently. _

_Hermione let her head tilt backwards as the china seat chilled her back nicely. She let a groan escape from her lips. "I ruined it," she moaned softly. "Everything!"_

_"Everything is not your hair," Ron told her._

_Hermione shook her head and ran her hands across her face, scrubbing the humiliation in before Ron had the chance. "It's revolting. I look dreadful."_

_"Since when have you cared?" he asked, picking up the scissors and admiring them at a distance. "I mean, not to be cruel, but I've seen you looking a lot more… repulsive. Don't forget that I've seen you puke more times than you can probably remember. There's no one to see you, anyway. It's just hair."_

_"I don't care," she snapped, blushing at her vanity. "I just want it back to normal."_

_"Let me, then," Ron walked towards her, his fingers slipping into the handles._

Hermione climbed steadily to her feet. The sun only had a few more minutes before totally disappearing and she needed the dim light to find her way home again. The walk back was always shorter and the sight of the backdoor was almost dreaded, but the ocean breeze and calls of far off birds took her mind away. The rocks grew smaller and then faded into the white sand that was associated with home. Her feet took her around the last turn of shore and there the house was – standing remote and small against a vast, empty backdrop – and there was a light on beyond the opened kitchen window.

Ron looked up from the stove to wipe his brow. He shut off the heat and glanced out the window over the sink. He was not surprised to see Hermione's slight figure limping over the sandy banks, surrounded by the mild, curling mist that accompanied nightfall. His eyes were steady as they watched her move closer. Her walk was not lithe and graceful like it once had been, but it was better. Her hips swayed back and forth mesmerizingly as a smile lit up her tanned face. It had been right where she was walking that she had perfected the art.

_"Help me up," Hermione commanded, her face red with frustration and pain. Her legs had twisted beneath her, sand piling into the folds and dips of her clothing. It was the fourth time she had fallen on their walk and they were both getting annoyed._

_Ron took a few steps backward, teasingly. "Do it yourself. I know you can."_

_"Ronald," she hissed warningly, rolling off to her side, "help me."_

_"I've done that several times already, as I recall," he responded, ticking the incidents off on the tips of his fingers. "And besides, I've got dinner to cook. It really can't wait any longer." His feet carried him further away._

_Hermione's eyes were tinged with fear. "You wouldn't leave me out here."_

_"Stand up," Ron replied, his face turning serious. _

_Hermione huffed in his direction, but managed to get to her knees. She pulled herself up slowly, tottering, but managing her gravity. "There," she growled at him, glaring. "I stood. Now come help me back."_

_Ron didn't move closer, didn't move away. "Take a few steps and then I'll think about it."_

_"Ron!" Hermione cried irately. _

_"Do it!" he shouted back sternly._

_"No! I can't."_

_"Then you can stay out here and starve." Ron turned and walked to the house. He twisted his head to whistle for Gus and to steal a glance at his bereft companion. He grinned happily and left the backdoor open invitingly for her. It was his new-found hobby to make her miserable. It made him feel a tad guilty, but the acts weren't malicious as they once had been. They were only small things, like moving her bookmarks to the wrong chapter or using all the towels in his early-morning showers. Leaving her in the sand for a half-hour or so wasn't going to kill her._

_"Ronald!" Hermione screamed, "I'm going to slaughter you!"_

_"Catch me if you can," he laughed, turning to raid the pantry. _

_Hermione shrieked bloody murder for the longest time. Ron peeked out the window when she took her first, cautious step and then again when she fell only seconds later. It had been a long walk and her knees had given out only on the way back. Her muscles weren't strong enough, but he figured it was the perfect way to get them back to normal – make her work for it. _

_She fell an awful lot. Hermione's threats and pleas faded after a while and Ron turned his attention fully to his food. He concentrated on making something above average as an apology, a reward, when Hermione finally reached the table. An hour passed._

_As Ron bent over the pan to inspect his creation, he felt a sharp pain sting his side. Jumping slightly and cursing, he whirled around. The pain was pointed and throbbing. Hermione stood inches away, her eyes livid. Her hand darted out and she pinched his arm tightly. Her other hand got a hold of the thin layer of skin covering his stomach._

_"Ow!"Ron shouted, jumping out of reach. Hermione followed him, licking her lips._

_"I am going to _murder you_," she hissed._

_He went to bed covered in tiny, red scratches, ugly purples bruises, and a satisfied smile._

Ron opened the door and Gus darted out between his legs before he even realized what was going on. He watched the dog gallop towards Hermione for a moment. She seemed surprised by the sudden appearance of Gus and her eyes flew towards him. She waved slightly. He licked his lips.

"You snuck out," his voice was calm, low. He wasn't accusing or upset and the words flowed over her smoothly. Her heart jumped a beat.

"Sorry," Hermione replied, smiling softly. She ducked under Ron's skinny arm as it held open the door for her. She heard Ron whistle for the dog as she took a seat at the table. Dinner had already been set out, glasses filled, and silverware placed. Usually she and Ron went for a walk together and she would have to wait another hour before it was time to eat. It was a nice surprise, even if it made her feel a little guilty for leaving without him.

"See anything good?" he asked, taking his seat across from her.

"Nothing different," she replied. Her eyes darted up to meet his and then shied away, finding them trained on her.

Ron took a drink and said, smacking his lips, "That's a surprise."

Hermione smiled and began eating. Meals were a quiet affair for the most part, as were all the other affairs they had. Nothing was ever new or interesting or funny or controversial – aside from the never-ending argument over the placement of the toilet seat – and silence was extremely common. Ron wasn't that affected by it, having spent whole years without steady company, but Hermione was shaken by the profound quiet. At least in Lawrence she could write letters and call on Ginny. There wasn't anything here.

Ron left the table after a while. He had to complete his nighttime ritual of pouring himself a bit of brandy and retiring to the living room to read whatever Hermione had finished the week prior. He flipped the switch on the back of the radio he had illegally purchased from a wanderer that had lumbered through in mid July. Hermione washed the dishes to soft jazz as Gus tottered off to curl up on the edge of her bed. It was almost like being a family, she thought, if not for the fact all of it was forced.

Ron glanced up from his text when Hermione sidled past him to lie on the other half of the sofa. After washing up, sometimes she would go straight to bed; sometimes she would read the post, other times she would sprawl around with Gus, even scribble letters to her family that she saved to be delivered in bulk once she got home. It was always a pleasant night when she sat so close Ron could smell the flowered shampoo she used. Hermione pulled the newspaper to her, but did not open it. Instead, she turned her gaze to the ceiling and lost herself in thought. Ron peered over the top of the binding to watch her round eyes glaze over and her body relax. He couldn't help himself – the curves molded on her body were beautiful, sensuous.

Two hours passed until Ron found he could not stand the dreary _Le Pape_, a work that Hermione had devoured last Tuesday. "Oh, I love Viktor Hugo," she had exclaimed enthusiastically, "just try this." She had shrugged, happy that she had been able to help, and could not help adding, "Aren't you fond of him? I've always liked the name Hugo." He had rolled his eyes and accepted the text.

Ron shut the book with a grimace and tossed it somewhere behind him. As it hit the ground, he expected to be chastised for not treating it with more respect. When no angry words came, Ron glanced over in Hermione's direction and found she was quite asleep. Her legs were sprawled and her tiny hands hung limp off the cushions. Her face was calm, eyelids moving fluidly and her lips pouting as they breathed deeply. He considered leaving her there for the remainder of the night.

Ron stood and bent down until he was eyelevel with her. The sun had brought out tiny, light freckles that mesmerized him. Ron shook his head. He gathered Hermione's body in his arms and began the trek down the dark hallway. Of course he wouldn't leave her out – she would spend the rest of the morning complaining of aches in her shoulders and back. He didn't want to go another day without company on his walk.

Hermione sighed and curled into his chest. She was vaguely aware of the fact she was being carried and did not doubt whose arms held her. The embrace was warm and wanted. Long ago she had learned that she wasn't allowed to love Ron, but found it impossible not to in these moments. Her heart would jump when he flashed a smile as she fussed over something trivial. Her pulse would pound when she caught him singing off-key as he shaved in the mornings. Her body would ache to move closer when he mumbled a final, sleepy 'goodnight.' She craved his touch, though she knew he didn't reciprocate. In these rare instances, Hermione held tight and pretended that he loved her just as he did Before. It was pathetic and she knew it, but she ignored the nagging voice in the back of her head and did it anyway.

Ron's arms relaxed as Hermione's hand spread across the front of his shirt. His pace was slow, unhurried. He liked the feeling of being in control, being wanted again. The several months that Hermione was unconscious, Ron grew accustomed to making all of the decisions for her and hearing no guff about it. The situation had drastically changed when she had woken, started talking, walking, realized that she didn't need a caretaker for much longer. Ron's role in her life had shrunk, disintegrated as her freedom swelled. It was then that he understood he wanted that responsibility back – the power to make her happy, make her comfortable, take away her fears and pains. Just as it had been before the whole mess started. He wanted her trust, her friendship back.

It scared him badly. The thought he would ever want her around again still seemed unfeasible, but there it was in the back of his head. Ron would think of how angry he had been with his hands shaking and his face red and expect the feeling to dissipate. It would for a while, but come back when he saw her bare legs turn the corner or when he watched her bite her lip as she read the post. Hermione would flick her hair behind her ear and Ron found himself completely entranced by her slender, white wrist for several minutes. He enjoyed having her tender, turbulent friendship and knew he would desire it until his head and heart ached.

Ron caught himself walking in the direction of his own bedroom and quickly corrected himself. It was weird to have two bedrooms instead of one. He liked not sleeping in a glorified coat closet, but somehow missed Hermione's presence so close to him. Only a wall separated them, but it felt like much more. He hadn't been able to sleep his first few nights in an empty space.

Ron kicked open the door and found Hermione's room to be completely spotless.

"Figures," he mumbled, tripping over his own feet. Ron crossed the room in a few easy steps and laid Hermione gently down on the side of the bed with the sheets already turned down. Moonbeams lit up her rosy cheeks and bronzed hair and russet shoulders. His eyes lingered longer than they should have and his fingers stroked through her tiny curls.

"Goodnight," Hermione whispered, smiling secretively.

Ron ran his thumb hard over her cheek and pulled away, smiling. "Faker," he whispered back accusingly.

Hermione turned away from him to face the opened window. "Doesn't matter now, does it?"

Ron tugged the blanket over her shoulders before heading towards the door. "Goodnight," he said gruffly.

Hermione was already lost to sleep by the time the handle clicked shut.

--

"Ron!" The voice was foggy, muddled through the thick curtain of slumber that cloaked the inside of his mind. "Ron!" There was a sharp pressure on his shoulder now. "Wake up!"

Hermione shook him frantically with all her might. Panic was surging through her veins, driving her mad. She stole a look over her shoulder to the darkened hallway outside the door. Another crash came. Her grasp tightened.

"What?" his voice was hazy. Ron blinked and saw Hermione leaning over top of him. He bucked upright. "What is it?"

Hermione clutched both of his shoulders and stared into his eyes with fear expressed plainly on her features. "Someone is in the living room." Her mouth trembled over the words.

"Are you sure?" Ron's voice was deep, urgent now. All trace of sleep was gone.

"_Yes_!" she hissed, "Just listen!"

The pair sat still as Ron's teeth clenched. There were footsteps by the front door; there was no doubt about it. They were heavy and ominous. There was a clink of glass. His eyes darted to her face.

"Stay here."

"What?" Hermione cried, moving aside so Ron could swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Her mouth hung open. There was an intruder in the house and he wanted to leave her all alone to get stolen again. He prowled to the closet and delved into his clothes in search of his wand, completely uncaring. "I'm going with!" she hissed frenetically. Her hands were shaking as they clutched Ron's sheets. "You can't expect me to just keep in this room all by myself."

Ron's head appeared out of the blackness, his expression hard. "That's ludicrous. You're staying right where you are. Keep _quiet_."

Hermione glared at him for a moment, but Ron turned away. He didn't understand in the least. She darted off the mattress and flew silently down the hallway in search of her own protection. The adrenaline took the steady pain out of her knees. Ron could not stop her. He swore furiously under his breath when he emerged and found her gone, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Hermione was almost as stubborn as he was.

Ron snuck out into the hallway, his arm raised steadily. He took a few deep breaths to clear his head and calm his pounding heart. He swept past the bathroom before he spotted the shadow rounding the corner he had just come from. Hermione's curls were unmistakable. He scowled in her direction and she responded with an equally serious frown. He jerked his head to the left and she followed him.

Hermione almost cried out as Ron jumped out into the living room, shouting a grand "_Stupefy_!" in doing so.

There was a prolonged beat of silence when Hermione stood frozen with fear.

"Why, Weasley," a familiar voice clipped. "What a pleasant surprise."

Hermione's eyes widened as her breath was taken away. It couldn't be. It was the moment she had been dreaming of since she had arrived. Had it finally come to pass? Could it really be him? Hope surged through her body, making Hermione shiver. It could all be a horrific, terrible joke. She wished that Ron's hand was wrapped tightly around her own. However, her frenzied anticipation overrode her deep-seated dread. Could it truly be him? Could it?

"Krum." Ron's voice was hard, deadpan.

It was.

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it?? I hope so! In the earlier chapters of this story, time seemed to jump around - months would pass inbetween paragraphs - and this is just another example.

Please leave me any comments or questions or suggestions! I love reading all my reviews. :)

I apologize again for the wait - it seems I've become pretty unreliable. I promise to work on it, though!! Have a nice weekend, everyone!

Katie


	22. A Hard Rain

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone!! An update only a couple hours late! I'm very proud of myself, though the chapter is short. As most midwestern US citizens know, we're getting a ton of rain this summer. There's flooding everywhere and it's just a matter of time before we get evacuated, too. All the bridges are underwater and the thunderstorms just seem to be getting worse! Gah, I hope it goes away. This is a terrible year for storms. Anyway, that's what I've been up to, if anyone was wondering - sandbagging and trying to Mapquest my way around town through all the detours.

Anyway! I finished on time this week! I hope you all enjoy it - things are getting complicated... again... even more. :)

* * *

"Have you seen or heard from Seamus Finnigan in the last week?"

Viktor stood tall and broad in the middle of the living room. His cloak was draped heavily over his shoulders, tattooed with raindrops and mud splatters. His eyes flickered over the pair standing in the doorway, sagging and leaning with sleep. Heart pounding furiously, Viktor waited for an answer.

"No," Hermione spoke first, stepping forward. She lurched ahead and steadied herself on the back of the couch. Her brow was furrowed. "Why?"

"Nothing at all?" Viktor swallowed, keeping his face absolutely straight. "No letters? No word? Nothing?"

"She said no," Ron was at Hermione's side in the blink of an eye. Grimly serious, Ron's mind whirred through every possible explanation as to why Viktor would be asking for Seamus. Had he run away? Been caught?

"What's going on?" Hermione's voice was clear through the dark. If Viktor had not been so dead set on his mission, he would have been very surprised by the obvious change that Hermione had been through. Her back was straighter, her speech more refined, there was even a slight glow on her cheeks. Nothing like the sickly woman from Before.

"I have to be going," Viktor's voice was clipped.

Ron threw himself forward, inches away from Viktor's damp figure. Lightening cracked in an early warning of a storm behind him, illuminating the grave gleam in his eyes. Ron's pulse picked up, but the words were already tumbling from his mouth. No matter how long it had been since he had seen anyone, Ron would always be Ron – stubborn and headstrong. "What the fuck, Krum," Ron's mouth was set in a thin line. "You're leaving? What's going on?" His fingers reached out to grasp the cloth of Viktor's cloak, but the other man took a step backward.

"What's happened to Seamus?" Hermione was somber, staid. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the cushion of the couch. Fear coursed through her, her own thoughts poisoning the rest of her body. Seamus had been taken, just as she had. This time, maybe, he wouldn't be so lucky. Visions of his body flashed behind her lids. It was an instinct, a habit, which Hermione couldn't kick – picturing the corpses of family and friends – that haunted her.

"Say something!" Ron demanded.

Viktor took a great breath in through his large nostrils, making them flare dangerously. He closed the gap between Ron and himself. "Listen to me," he breathed severely in Ron's shocked face. "I am not going to tell you a damn thing. If you see Seamus Finnigan, if you speak to Seamus Finnigan, if you let Seamus Finnigan into this fucking shack, you tell me. _Immediately_-"

"How?" Hermione shouted, before Viktor could finish. She was angry, upset that Viktor had the nerve to appear and begin demanding ludicrous things like he hadn't been gone for months. Her fists pounded against the thick cloth. "How are we supposed to tell you _anything_? We don't have any way to! You _made_ it that way. If Seamus were to appear in the morning, there would be no way of contacting _anyone_!"

Viktor gave her a hard glare. "Gus," he replied curtly. "Go to him and he'll know exactly what to do."

"What kind of trouble is Seamus in?" Ron eyed the man sternly. His voice was shaking, but he was trying with all his might to remain under control.

"The worst, I fear," Viktor replied humorlessly. He turned his back on the two and his fingers wound tightly over the nail clippers in his pocket. His lips murmured an activation spell. "Remember what I told you."

Then, Viktor was gone, a small pool of water where he once stood.

Ron cursed, running harsh fingers through his hair and turning in his place. Anger was written clearly across his face and Hermione was not surprised. Agitation plagued her, as well. Thunder rumbled overhead. Her eyes drifted downward to her painfully curled toes.

"Do you think they've got him?" she asked somberly, glancing up at Ron. He was pacing with tight fists.

"I have no idea," he spat.

"He couldn't have run away, that's not Seamus at all. He's anything but a deserter. The Order is his whole life – his entire family. He couldn't just leave. It's not a possibility." Hermione told Ron as a matter of facts, not speculation. She wanted that thought present in every idea they thought up – Seamus would never leave the Order of his own free will. Though Ron and Seamus had not parted on good terms, Ron conceded to this.

"That means they must have got him," Ron looked at her with worried eyes. It was the first time he had seemed vulnerable in a long while and it nearly took Hermione's breath away. Suddenly her foundation shook – Ron was always so cocksure. Where was that now? When she needed it most?

"And Viktor can't find him," Hermione breathed, her knees locking beneath her. "This is terrible."

Ron's mouth opened to spew something, but he stopped himself and instead went back to frustrated pacing. Eventually sleep tripped at his heels as he turned and wheeled. He drew a long, tired over his face and caught Hermione wilting against the wall. Her eyes were on him.

"Go to bed," he grumbled.

Hermione's head bobbed wearily. Her vision was blurring with each blink and only then did Ron's order sound like a good idea. Palms flat against the wall, Hermione pushed herself down the hallway and towards slumber. The faster sleep came, the faster the dread and worry would lift themselves from her newly-burdened shoulders.

Ron watched her tumble out of sight. He felt jaded and drained. What sort of stunt did Viktor pull? Disregarding his horrific, spellbinding message, Viktor had appeared in front of Hermione. She had been quietly dropping hints she was sure Viktor's rescue would be coming soon. This had to be crushing her. Nothing had gone according to her plan, Ron was sure. He knew how badly Hermione reacted to ruined plans. His own expectations of a visit had been sorely shattered as well. They were no closer to home then when they arrived.

The storm raged on as Ron began the long journey to his own bed. He could hear the rain pound against the roof so hard it bounced off and fell again. Lightning lit his way and thunder soothed his cluttered mind. It was only appropriate there be a tempest on a night like this.

Ron was mildly astounded to find a body already curled beneath the sheets of his own bed. He tread carefully in the room and closed the door without a sound. Not bothering to change into something more comfortable, Ron crossed the rug and took a seat on the edge of the mattress.

"Hermione?" he whispered, his fingers inches away from her hair spreading wildly across the pillowcase.

Hermione heard her name being called and inhaled deeply. She was stunned by how strong Ron's familiar scent was. It claimed her, embraced her, calmed her, and let her fall gently back into hazy blackness.

Ron almost smiled. He managed to fit himself in the extra space – Hermione wasn't big – and pulled a few covers to himself. His body curved to fit the shape of hers. Gently, Ron gathered her curls and laid them to the side so they wouldn't get caught under his ear. A certain sense of déjà vu engulfed him – it was a motion he had done every night for years – and he had to stop for a moment. The rush to the past was fast and unprecedented and it left him staggering and wanting and wishing and heartbroken. His hand slipped over her waist, holding her tight to him.

"Is anything going to be okay?" Hermione mumbled, wondering if she was still in a dream. Even through the fog she knew that nothing was the same and nothing was good, but she couldn't help asking. Childishly, she wanted some reassurance.

"Yes," Ron murmured in reply, his lips on her ear. He listened to Hermione breathe and felt her body relax. Her shoulders slumped against his, her hips settled against his, her back curved to the fit of his chest, legs entwined. And then he slept, too.

--

"Are we seriously having a fight over this?" Harry demanded unbelievingly.

Ginny glared at him, bored and unsatisfied with his protest. "Yes," she replied coolly, "we're fighting over this." She pushed herself from the chair and walked toward him, keeping her resentment at bay.

"But why?" Harry's voice had grown more annoyed. His mouth screwed over to the side of his face, pulling wrinkles of skin with it. "Every other time, you haven't had a problem with it."

"Of course I have!" Ginny cried, cornering him. "Of course I have a problem with it – you're leaving again! You leave so repeatedly I almost never get any time with you. You stay away for so long I forget what it's like to be with you. By the time I get adjusted, you're off again! Do you understand that?"

"Gin," Harry sighed, "I can't control it. You know that."

"You could at least try!" Ginny shrieked, her frustration peaking. "You're The Boy Who Lived – I think you've earned the right to request a month or two off! The Order owes you, don't they? Won't they give you a goddamned vacation everything century or so?"

"People out there are dying, Ginny," Harry was serious now. "And people out there are trying to destroy the things I've worked to build. Hogwarts was attacked again just three weeks ago, did you know that? I can't just take time off, not when they need me."

"I know that," Ginny pleaded, "And I feel horribly guilty for asking this of you, you have to know that." Her face hardened and her gaze held his steadily. "But I love you too much to let this go unsaid. I want you here with me. I want a home, Harry. I want you in it. I want to be a wife. I want a ring. I want something tangible I can hold at night - a body – _your_ body. I want to hear your voice more than once every six months. I want to know what it feels like to get flowers or breakfast in bed or soap rubbed on my back in the shower. I want all these things Harry, and more.

"I'm being so selfish, I know, but I haven't been in the past. I let you go all the time, convincing myself that each mission would be your last. I know now that I was a fool to lead my life like that.

"I just want you to know what I want, for once. It's been building and growing inside me for months and it's finally escaping. You've made it your life's work to help other people – can't you help me for a while?"

Harry stared at his girlfriend with wide, wondering eyes. He watched the tears stream down her reddened cheeks and the breath escape raggedly from her lungs. She was absolutely beautiful. Harry pulled Ginny into his rough, taught arms and kissed her fiercely. Her mouth was soft, salty.

Ginny crumbled into his embrace, her adrenaline almost depleted now. She was drained, empty. However, this kiss – no matter how passionate or wanted it was – was not an answer. There was no finality in kissing. There wasn't a deal yet. She thrust her hands against Harry's large chest and pushed herself away. "Stop!" she commanded harshly. Her turbulent eyes glowed.

"Harry James Potter," she hissed, "that is no answer." Ginny took a few steps away, arms held out in front of her. "I know I can't get all that I want – but you have to be willing to give in to some of these things if this is going to work."

Harry nodded, his glasses slipping down on his nose. He didn't bother to push them back up. "I want those things, too, Gin," he assured her with a hoarse voice. "I want to hold you every night and I want to watch you wake up every morning. But I can't do that right now. It burns me to know that I can't."

Ginny's heart fell. Disappointment flowed through her like a wave surging over a broken dam. It was the answer her head had known was coming, but her heart was convinced would never be spoken. She slumped. "You're going to let all this go?" she whispered.

"No!" Harry shouted gratingly. "I would never do that." His eyes dipped downward. "But I do have to ask you to do one thing before I can start on your list."

"What?" Ginny asked, hot tears welling again in her eyes. She crossed her arms, huddling them to her chest.

"Just let me go this time. I can't refuse this time, because I've already been accepted into a squad." Harry stepped closer, but Ginny moved to keep the distance equal. She refused to meet his gaze. "And I promise that when I get back, I'm going to marry you, Gin. I'm going to have a ring and get down on one knee and you're going to say yes. Marrying you is going to be the best thing that ever happens to me, it just has to wait for a little while longer."

"I don't know if I can do that," Ginny told him. Her heart was slowly beginning to rise. It wasn't a proposal – just a proposal of a proposal – but it was a step.

"Isn't it worth it, though?" Harry was genuinely hurt.

Ginny sighed. "I ju-"

The door creaked open. Charlie walked in unannounced and a bit red in the cheeks. He had only caught the last part of the conversation and knew all about Harry's departure for Ireland next week. He cleared his throat and set his face.

"Seamus is missing," his voice was low and throaty. "I came to tell you now, because it's just been officially announced. He's been MIA for the past hour and a half. Viktor will be stopping by in a few minutes. Mum wants us all in the living room for coffee."

**A/N: **Did you like it?? I hope so. I've got this all planned out now - right to the very end. No stopping now! Unless our power gets shut off because of all the floods!

Please leave me comments and questions and suggestions - I love reading all of them :):):) they make me smile and enjoy my day. Have a great week, everyone!!

Katie


	23. Fall Line

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Our power was turned on yesterday! It went out a couple of times today, but I waited until nighttime to post so our connection would go through. I'm sorry for missing last week's deadline, because I actually had all this written, if you can't believe it :) Unfortunately, I live in the part of Iowa that suffered from the epic flooding last week or so. My family never had to evacuate, but we did have to go without power for a while and we couldn't shower or use the toilet or wash our hands so we could conserve water.

Anyway, the flooding is over and we're starting to rebuild again. :) As for the story, this has a bit of Hermione-Ron fluff, which I have been dying to write. I've got the final plot all ironed out, too! This is a big accomplishment for such a procrastinator like myself. I know that some of you have called me out on my lack of plot and I'm trying to get it back on track. Thank you everyone for putting up with me!

* * *

The air was cold and dry as it rushed past his exposed ears. It bit the tips of his fingers and sides of his face and wormed its way under his coat and down his trousers and into his shoes. He could not escape the bitterness of the November wind, just as he could not outrun his pursuers. Though his path was lit well with unfiltered moonlight, Seamus could not pick his way fast enough through the winding roads in the outskirts of Ipatovo. His breath escaped as white fog as it barreled out of his open mouth, leaving a visible trail for them to follow.

Only an hour ago did his fingers slip casually over the cool lock on the door to The Surveyor. Seamus had slipped the keys into his pocket and they were now banging against the side of his leg as he hurled himself down the alley. He had been working at a local newspaper under an assumed name for months. It was his only assignment after his 'break' and he had taken it grudgingly. He was glad to be so close to The Shop operations, but annoyed at having to continuously pretend. Living with the fear that he would soon be found out was not easy.

It seemed that his fear had now become tangible. All week, Seamus had felt eyes on his back. He was usually left alone to work on phony 'reports' and 'filing' and it gave him unaccustomed chills. It had almost been a weird sort of relief when he had heard those voices after closing up shop. They had been ominous and low, calling to him out of the darkness on the corner. All the streetlamps were out and Seamus began to run without question. Men – at least four – followed with thick footsteps on the cement behind him. They had shouted his name – his _real_ name – and Seamus' heart dropped into his tired feet.

Seamus knew the inner part of the city – it wasn't large – almost by heart. He had run to pick up twenty coffee orders only two blocks away from The Surveyor every week. He walked to the park around the corner on the weekends. He took his lunch break across the street at the tiny café. His apartment was only a ten minute walk away. Seamus had weaved his way through downtown very easily and put a good distance between him and the men. As the housing and businesses began to thin out and turn ugly with disuse and ill-treatment, his familiarity dissipated. He had never found the time or courage to explore through the dingy outer city and he now regretted it deeply.

"Mr. Finnigan!" a smooth voice called to him mockingly. "Won't you slow down?"

"Fuck off!" Seamus tossed over his shoulder with a scowl. He tripped over a trashcan lid and cursed, stumbling.

"Now that's not very nice of you, Mr. Finnigan," Hidalgo grinned toothily. The bastard couldn't last much longer – not at the pace he was maintaining. It was only a matter of time before his fingers closed over Seamus Finnigan's throat.

The chase lasted for what seemed an eternity. Seamus ran and dodged and hid and scrambled and staggered and careened and lurched until his lungs felt like they would burst with another footstep. Inevitably, he slowed. His Auror training served him well, but he was no match for The Shop. Seamus found the road beneath his feet turning rocky with gravel. He had reached the city limits and there was nowhere left to hide. The fields beyond were bare and white and unforgiving. Pausing, Seamus held his sides as he decided to circle back. If he could just make it far enough to the left, he would be able to sink back into the city. It was his only chance.

It failed. As Seamus wheeled to the left, a figure appeared in the corner of his eye. The man brandished a wand and Seamus cursed again for not having his at the ready. With a blink of an eye, Seamus collapsed on the ground as a brilliant blue flash struck him square in the chest.

"Got 'im!" a heavily accented voice shouted to its counterparts. He smiled in triumph as he stood above the limp body of Seamus, as if claiming it as his prize.

"Good," Hidalgo murmured with what little breath he had left. He bent forward – hands on his knees – and examined his newest captor. He tweaked Seamus' sweat stained cheek. "Ruddy little bastard, aren't you? Can't be much older than twenty-four. Can you believe that?" He turned his head to the side and spat. "Finally caught him, only to find out he's just a kid."

"Why now?" Ulysses Nash wanted to know. "Why'd you have us wait so long?" His face was flushed – he was not a strong runner – and he was upset. "Jesus. I thought we were supposed to pick him up last summer."

Hidalgo quickly turned to face his teammate. "He went on a fucking vacation, Nash, somewhere remote. No one would've given two shits if he were by himself. This is supposed to be a statement, this is supposed to be noticeable – give some warning to The Order and The Ministry of Magic. I want to let them know they're not winning this war. I want Viktor Krum to know that his agents aren't safe – they never were. I want everyone in the whole goddamned country to know that it was me who abducted to great Mr. Finnigan."

Ulysses did not reply.

Hidalgo soothed his temper and turned back to Seamus' body. He nudged it with his toe before murmuring, "Get him to Headquarters immediately. Put him in the same cell that precious Eleanor Crumley had. We've got some talking to do."

Nash and Shale began preparing a portkey as Hidalgo continued to leer at the body. Hopefully Seamus would awake in a few hours. He wanted to see the look on the boy's face as he realized where he was, as he realized there was no escape, no hope. The quintet vanished only a few minutes later – set on The Shop Headquarters. Hidalgo took a cup of coffee in his private dining room as Nash and Shale took Finnigan to his new chambers. He watched out the window as the men dragged the boy by the arms down the stone path to The Facility. Stirring the black liquid with a serving spoon, a glittering, evil smile played on Hidalgo's lips.

--

"Why, hello," his voice was soft, friendly, and charming. He stood a few feet away from the damp wall Seamus' wrists were chained to. His wand was aimed directly at the boy's forehead. The sweet, moldy smell of the cell was intoxicating, powerful.

Seamus groaned as a wave of consciousness passed over him. The tide brought a stinging, burning pain in his chest and a morbid sense of curiosity with it. Wherever he was, it was not a good place. Feeling the coldness against his limbs, Seamus knew that it was not right. He blinked and found that his new surroundings were lit by a solitary candle lingering somewhere out of sight. The fog clouding his mind thinned as he realized there was a man standing above him and a wand pointed at him.

"Fuck," he muttered, his senses sharpening. Seamus recognized the man – it was the ringleader of The Shop – Skillen. He was in captivity, now.

Hidalgo stared at him disapprovingly. "I believe we have yet to meet on even grounds, Mr. Finnigan. I think you may want to start out on a good foot with me. I suggest a better tone." He pressed the tip of his wand into Seamus' clammy forehead.

"I can't believe you fucking got me," Seamus shook his head disbelievingly. He scoffed and then fixed his gaze on Skillen's. "What're you going to use me for? Names? Places? Inf-"

"Enough!" Hidalgo roared, his wand digging into the skin.

"Or just collateral?" Seamus wanted to know. "Let Krum and the rest of them know you have me, then kill me. Make an example, right? I know how these things work."

"_Defodio," _Hidalgo replied. He watched with satisfaction as the skin on Finnigan's cheek stretched to a ghastly white before tearing wide open. The crimson blood sparkled as it ran thick down his chin.

"Fuck!" Seamus shouted, struggling to cover the wound. He found his arms stuck above his head.

"For your insolence!" the other man yelled loudly. "The next time I want you to speak, I will let you know. While I find your quick intellect refreshing and quite surprising, I also find it annoying. Do not forget who holds the power here, Mr. Finnigan."

Seamus did not doubt the severity of Skillen's words and remained silent. His cheek ached sharply and he could smell the metallic blood trickling onto his robes. His mind was whirring – identify the captor, identify the room, identify exits, identify weak spots. It was hard to squint with the injury so fresh.

"Now," Hidalgo's voice drawled out to normalcy. "How shall we start this… conversation?" He paced the tiny cell, feigning deep thought. He felt the dominance and adrenaline surge through his veins and it made him seem invincible. "Oh, yes," Hidalgo turned back to Seamus. "Tell me how you liked Ipatovo! A quiet place, yes, but also very scenic, very pretty indeed. Did you enjoy yourself playing reporter-turned-spy?"

"Loved it," Seamus spat through gritted teeth.

"Lovely," Hidalgo returned. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Those are the good memories you can turn to when things get… difficult here. That's what your friend Granger did. Even dreamed about it – we could hear her talk from down the corridor – very depressing stuff. Hopefully you'll be dead before that happens to you."

Seamus did not speak.

Hidalgo cocked his head to the side, wand pressed underneath his own cheek in thought. "_Flagrante," _he whispered and flicked his wrist in a flash.

Seamus groaned as his arms began to burn. It was white hot heat that engulfed his elbows and wormed its way up to his wrists. The skin blistered painfully as tears sprang to his eyes. It was so sudden; the pain did not appear for several seconds.

"Tell me about her – Hermione Granger, I mean – how is she doing?"

"I have no idea," Seamus struggled to force the words out. He gagged on his own spit. He had not felt this sort of pain for several years and knew it would not end. "We don't speak at all."

"Now," Hidalgo frowned, "I find that hard to believe. My sources say that you two are the best of friends. You did, after all, oversee her case when she returned home. Don't even begin to lie to me, Mr. Finnigan." He turned his back on Seamus and shouted, "_Flagrante!" _again.

Seamus' arms were on fire, literally. A dull, blue haze engulfed the tiny hairs that scoured his forearms. He screamed, forcing his chest out, flapping his arms wildly, and he cursed. "Shit! Holy shit!" He felt like vomiting.

Hidalgo watched with amusement until the blaze died. He commended the boy for not simply passing out – obviously he was strong enough to withhold much more than Granger could. He looked forward to it.

"Enough of the small talk," he decided, stepping forward. "You're absolutely right. I'm using you to get names and places and faces. Why not begin now, when you're still fresh?" He dusted off his black robes and set himself into a very businesslike manner. "I'm truly interested in the whereabouts of Ms. Granger. Where did she sneak off to this time?"

--

The ground was warm beneath his body, heated by the temperature of the early afternoon. He wouldn't open his eyes for fear of the sharp sunlight, but he could hear raucous, unbound laughter from far-off and footsteps slipping and sliding through the sand. He could tell that Gus was wound up, probably foaming at the mouth by now. He grinned and rolled onto his side. Daring to open a lid, Ron saw hazily that Hermione was kicking up great sprays of sand as she ran alongside the dog. She held something above her head and Gus was working himself into a frenzy – as much as an old dog could – to get it.

Ron watched for a while, stretching and lazing into a sitting position. He brushed the grains of his legs as he kept his toes buried deep in the earth. It was an unusually warm day for December first, especially to an English boy. It didn't bother him much, seeing how nothing besides Hermione was on his mind. He couldn't keep his gaze from her – the way her hips sidled from side to side, how her hair bounced in plump curls over her shoulders, the quick, alluring movements of her wrists held high above her head, the slight tan of her skin, the way her shirt rode up slightly and revealed the small of her back. Luckily she was preoccupied and therefore wouldn't mind if he stared too long at bird tattooed on her back. It had come alive – the slim lines darkening and shining – given time in the sun and fresh air, finally able to breathe. It brought him back to times of Before – the actual good memories – and he almost smiled, remembering the way she would kiss him on the cheek before leaving or snuggle up to him on the couch during radio shows.

The sharpness of Gus' bark brought Ron back to his senses. His smile turned sad, reflective.

Hermione continued to throw a tiny disc about the dunes and laugh as Gus would go after it time and time again. Her legs were getting better – no longer pale and scrawny – but Ron still noticed the way her ankles would falter and her feet would drag. She didn't seem to mind it and that kept Ron from opening his mouth. Just as today, he would lay outside until she tired herself out.

"What are you staring at?" her voice was clear through the breezy air.

Ron blinked and watched Hermione walk slowly towards him, wiping her forehead with the side of her shirt.

"Gus," he lied easily.

Hermione grinned softly and stood by him, her hands on her hips. Gus followed her with the disc hanging from his jaws. He pawed at Ron, his eyes pleading for another. He was rejected, but Ron rubbed his ears and sighed. Gus sat next to him and leaned into the embrace. Hermione watched them both carefully and tried to commit the scene to memory.

"I wish this was the way life was all the time," she said, her eyes unfocused.

"Locked up?" Ron grunted.

"Beautiful," Hermione replied. She felt the sun on her shoulders and the sand under her feet and truly believed what she said, even if it was only for a moment. It was comforting to let the circumstances of her life melt away in the heat.

"London's beautiful," Ron bit. "Even Lawrence is, in a homely sort of way. There's a history there this place can't match. Our friends, our family, the rest of our lives – that's what's beautiful."

"Can't you just enjoy what we have?" she asked, unaffected by the bitterness in Ron's voice. She sat on his other side and watched Gus hum with happiness.

"Not especially." He shrugged. "I want to go home."

"What're you going to do?" Hermione asked, squinting through the sunlight. An uncomfortable fear began swirling inside her. She didn't really want to hear the answer, because she was convinced it wouldn't include her. "When you go home, I mean."

Again, Ron shrugged and gave her a gentle look. "I'll have to get another place. Probably stay with Charlie or Bill until I can find a good town to settle in."

"I was thinking of London," Hermione smiled shyly.

Ron cracked his own grin. "Me too."

Relief coursed through her and she seemed to settle back a bit. The rigidity in her locked arms subsided and her shoulders relaxed and her toes unclenched.

"We'll both have to start working again; even though you get worker's comp. Everyone knows you can only live off that for a couple years before it runs out." Ron saw Hermione's head bob in agreement. "I was thinking of trying my hand at potions again – it worked well before."

"Why not try going back to St. Mungos?" Hermione asked.

Ron's head snapped to Gus and suddenly, he was scowling. "How'd you know I tried Mungos?"

Hermione blushed, her fingers freezing in tight fists. "Um," she whispered, "Charlie told me a little while ago."

"So he told you everything, then," Ron's tone was more assuming than questioning. Charlie was quite the gossip. Hermione could do nothing but nod her head, horribly embarrassed. Anger simmered in the back of his mind, but Ron realized there was absolutely nothing he could do about it now. Charlie was thousands of miles away and tossing a few curses about now would do nothing but send Hermione into a fit. Instead, he sighed heavily and let it be.

Hermione was silent for a few moments, waiting for the rage to build. She was surprised when it never came, but thankful nonetheless. "Sorry," she whispered, "I really didn't mean to dig into your past. I know it's none of my business."

"I'm not going back to St. Mungos," Ron told her firmly, not able to say it straight to her face. "You should already know the reason, if Charlie was being Charlie."

"But," Hermione's voice was timid, but pervasive, "I'm right here." She let her hand slip onto his shoulder and was glad when he didn't flinch it away. "Charlie said you wouldn't do it, because of me. Now you can go back – I'm right here."

Ron's face was hard. "That's not always going to be the case, Hermione, and we both know it. Once we leave, we'll probably go our separate ways. I want to follow you, I want to know that you're safe, but I won't. Our situations have changed – you're not my girlfriend anymore. I won't have this kind of responsibility. If I leave, if I go to St. Mungos, there's always a chance that you'll appear. It would be like failing all over again."

Hermione swallowed painfully, choking down hurt and regret and realization that everything he said was true.

Ron ducked his head and breathed evenly.

Hermione shifted so she was on her knees and then turned towards him. One hand was on the back of his neck while the other was on his shoulder. She was sure she was shaking, but her nerve was still strong. Her fingers touched his hair softly.

"I don't want it to be like this anymore," she whispered and watched with wide eyes as Ron brought his head back up to look at her. Her mouth trembled as his hair glowed a hazy red in the sun. "I can't take it. I just, I just want you to be with me. I can't explain it, but I know I'm going to be miserable if I can't see you like I do now. I won't be able to sleep unless you're in the next room and I won't be able to eat if you're not sitting across the breakfast table. I can't hold this back anymore, even though I've really tried for your sake. It doesn't matter if we can't be together like we were before – I just want my best friend back. The one who worries, but doesn't worry so much that he can't have a career made for him. The one who will tell me to stop nagging, but make me laugh afterwards. The one who will make me cry, but wipe off my face later. I want to have that with you again."

Hot wind whipped through their hair as the couple sat motionless in silence. Hermione's heart was beating so hard that Ron could faintly hear it. She blinked hard, her nerve almost completely gone. Her knees were buckled beneath her and she couldn't move her grasp from him.

The urge to lean forward and kiss her was painfully subdued and Ron winced with the effort it took to accomplish the task. He wanted to rake his hands through her hair and hold her body close and kiss her neck. She was proposing friendship, when, in that exact instant, he would consent to romance without a thought. That fact alone intimidated him. How she had won her way back into his affection, Ron would never be able to figure out. He shook his head, trying to clean away the clutter that had drudged up.

"I don't think I can handle going separate ways." she told him.

There was more silence as Ron tried all the possible scenarios out quickly in his mind. Of course he wouldn't refuse, but how exactly could he tell Hermione the resounding 'yes' that flowed in his blood? How to say yes, he would go with her and continue this life as well as he could? Maybe they would live apart and not see each other every waking moment, but he would still try maintaining the connection they had so painfully tried to establish in the past year? How exactly would he say he would try to practice medicine again without thinking of every corpse as hers? To set aside his long-ago fears and truly live his life with her in it? How could he let himself accept the fact the past was going to stay with him, but it couldn't hound him as it once did? To let her know that she had been forgiven, allowed again?

"Alright," he murmured.

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**A/N: **Did you like it?? Ahhhhhhhhh I can't wait to post the next chapters, to let everyone know how this is going to turn out :):)

Please, leave me any questions or comments or suggestions! I read all of my reviews and appreciate them dearly. Have a great rest of the week!

Katie


	24. This Bird Has Flown

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter! :)

**A/N: **Hello, everyone! I finally got a chance to update!! Internet and phone accessibility has been very limited in the past couple of weeks and I apologize for the delays. I'll be on vacation in North Carolina in the next week, but the Internet connection there should be better than here in Iowa.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's basically just set-up for the next one :)

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Ron held his head in his hands, breathing deeply and evenly. His eyes were closed and all he saw were faint, streaking lines of color that disappeared before he could really focus on their shape or meaning - simply tiny fireworks to occupy his thoughts. His breath came in and out and the beating of his heart amused his ears. The swift thrum of blood in his veins kept him rocking softly from side to side. It was easy to become absorbed in his own body.

There was a knock on the door and then it swung open. Hermione stood in the door frame, leaning on it with her arms crossed in front of her. She quietly watched Ron relax and felt a twinge of guilt. They had been fighting only twenty minutes ago. Ron had wanted to go for a run before the sun set completely. Hermione had opposed the decision wholeheartedly - the sky was already a deep purple. It was a silly tiff that had escalated to screaming and shouting and unpleasantness. Ron had roared a final 'Fine!' and stormed away to his bedroom, knocking over a shelf of books in the process.

Now the sky was black and it was time to settle the matter.

"What is it?" the low grumble of his voice seemed to come from nowhere. The only thing that illuminated the room was the dim light from the hallway. Hermione blinked.

Her mouth opened and she could not think of the right thing to say. She wouldn't apologize - not outright, anyway - because her position on the matter had been completely justified. They had been specifically told not to go outside after dark for their own safety. Ron wasn't even going to take Gus.

"Are you still standing there?" Ron murmured, his fingers working over the skin on his forehead. His raging migrane had disappated to a headache in the time he had spent alone. He found that retreating to his room was the best possible idea for most of the fights they had gotten into. Often, if he didn't remove himself from the situation, things were broken or torn or set ablaze accidentally.

"Yes," Hermione replied.

"Forgive and forget?" he asked.

"Yes," Hermione nodded, her lips trying to hide a satisfactory smile.

"Get out of here."

Hermione turned and retreated back to the hallway. She hadn't won the final say of the argument, but she hadn't lost anything either. It was acceptable. Her fingers skimmed the textured skin of the wall as she walked down the hallway to main room. There was a crossword that needed to be completed.

Surprisingly, the whole other side of the house had gone dark. Hermione's heart lept involuntarily as her walk slowed to a creep. She had not turned off the lights since exiting the kitchen. Now her hand was flat against the wall, the coolness of it calming her some. She briefly thought about turning and fetching Ron to investigate for her. She was far too close to reverse direction and so she went on.

"Evening," a hearty voice came from the couch.

Hermione gasped, jumping. Her brow furrowed as she donned a severe look. "Who's there?" she called into the dark. "Viktor?"

A shrouded figure rose from the couch and came slowly towards her. "Of course it's me."

All the familiarity of his voice came flooding back to Hermione and she snorted loudly into the blackness. "Where do you get off, making such an entrance? Who shuts off all the lights as a way of saying 'Oh, hello, I've arrived!' You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry about that," Viktor replied, grinning faintly. "I guess my landing was a bit more... windy than I thought. Took a wonky portkey. It's the devil getting here anyway."

Hermione stood only a few feet away from him now. Her hands were on her hips and she put all her weight on one leg. There was a scowl on her face aimed directly at him. She was a perfect image of her stubborn, overbearing self three years previous - the normal Hermione. Viktor had to take a breath to deal with the familiarity. He was extremely pleased to have her back, though he wouldn't venture to say it.

Through her tough front, Hermione's heart was leaping. Viktor had arrived - there was news - finally. Her mind raced to Seamus and then to images of home. It was all she could do to remain cool.

"What are you doing here, Viktor?" she asked seriously, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. She coughed to cover it.

Viktor moved away from her as his face drooped a bit. He found the unlit candles on the walls and began to light them with a snap of his fingers. He hated to come again - he would not be taking Hermione or Ron back to London and he had no good news to keep their faith alive - and wished there was some easier way to ask the question that was on his mind.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Hermione assumed with a quivering lip. She bit down hard on it and watched Viktor's great bulk become sharper in the growing illumination. He would not turn to face her until all the candles in the living room had been lit.

Viktor sighed and walked towards her. "It's about Seamus," he said in a husky tone of voice.

"You found him?" Hermione swallowed.

"No," he replied, eager to get the conversation over and done with. "We haven't found him yet.."

""Then what are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to make sure that he hadn't shown up here since the last time I visited. We're all looking and we've got a few leads, but there's no sign of him anywhere." Viktor cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I don't think that he would just desert a mission-"

"Instead," Hermione interupted with baited breath, "you think that he's been captured." Her eyebrows knit together. "This visit is the final straw, isn't it? You wouldn't step foot in here if it weren't for him - you're just double-checking everything before you officially declare him abducted. I know the procedure, it's the same thing that kept me in that cell for so long. So, the answer is no. He hasn't been here."

"Don't do that," Viktor replied quietly. "I feel personally responsible for that. The guilt was overwhelming and I don't think I could take that again if it turns out that Seamus really is with them."

Hermione bent her head towards the floor and her heart sunk. Her throat began to close and the bite on her lip began to bleed a bit. She would not let the tears fall, but they pooled around her eyes anyway.

Viktor reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, unsure of how to handle such a situation. Hermione shook off his embrace, furious and sad.

"If the Shop took Seamus," Viktor told her, his hand hanging limp next to his side, "then this is the catalyst." It was a weird assurance for them both. If Seamus really had been taken by The Shop, then there would be a true war. "Skillen thinks that we'll send in agents again. That's for sure." Viktor sighed, running his hand over his face. "But he won't expect what we're planning."

Hermione tilted her head upwards. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, unsure of how to take the news.

"It's going to be over soon," Viktor continued vaguely. "Whether they have Finnigan or not, this mess will be finished soon enough."

The words settled heavily on both their hearts. Hermione nodded without speaking and Viktor accepted it. She sat in the armchair and then Viktor on the sofa. He conjured coffee for them both.

Hermione took her cup with delicate hands. She peered over the rim of it and said tartly, "We're not allowed to practice magic here."

Viktor tossed her a weathered smile. He shrugged and replied, "I can make special exceptions."

They drank in silence. The caffeine calmed their nerves and Hermione now felt more drained than angry. Her crossword was miles away from her mind. Her hands wrapped tightly around her empty cup.

"Where's Ron at?" Viktor's voice floated through her head.

Hermione blinked and turned to look at him. "Resting, I think. You probably shouldn't disturb him."

Viktor's large head bobbed in agreement. "I think I've learned my lesson from last time."

There was another tired silence that stretched on for quite awhile. It gave Hermione time to process the information and she was thankful for it. Viktor had always been one to give her space.

"Promise me," her voice was gravelly with sleep. Viktor's head snapped up to listen, glad to finally have something to listen to. "Promise me that you won't come back here until it's time for us to go home." It hurt to force the ultimatum out. "I care about Seamus very much, but I can't stand having you here. It kills me when all you have is horrible news. Don't come back until it's time."

Viktor could do nothing but agree with a heavy heart. It had been silly to think that Seamus would appear here. No one knew about it, void the trio in the house. He stood and planted a kiss on Hermione's cheek as a way of saying goodbye. He flashed her an exhausted, weary smile and disappeared.

--

Ginny sat in a chair in the corner of the bedroom, watching him pace back and forth. She had drawn her knees tight up to her chest and settled her chin atop her knees. Melancholy flowed fresh in her and she could not find the ability to assure him that everything was going to be fine like she did every other time he was preparing to leave. Instead, she remained silent and sad.

Harry spent his precious time throwing together a small bundle of essentials - mainly an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush. There wasn't really anything else that he couldn't conjure with his wand. _Except_, he thought, feeling the small, faded portrait of Ginny tucked safely in his pocket, _family_.

"Can you stay an extra day?" her voice was craggy from disuse.

Harry jerked around to look at his fiancee. Her face was stone, but there was a sort of pleading behind her gaze that was un-ignorable.

"I can't," his voice was filled with remorse. "I wish I could, Gin." He walked over to her chair and gently took her hands. He pulled her towards him and soon they were standing in a tight embrace.

"Can you stay a few extra hours?" she asked, breathing in his woody scent.

Harry smiled at her stubbornness and replied, "I think I can manage that."

"Good."

Ginny kissed him firmly, her hands spread wide across his chest.She tried to memorize his mouth, the way his nose bumped hers, the splay of his hands across her back. Phantom sensations were better than nothing, though they faded all too quickly.

Ginny's hands delved beneath the faded fabric of his shirt, pushing him backwards towards her bed. Harry laid back on it and drew her on top of him. Their clothes were soon forfeited to the floor.

They made love that was quick and passionate and filled with longing in the stolen time Harry had. They both had bit and scratched and shouted, trying to use sex as a way of ridding themselves of their grief and uncertainty. It had worked for the while, but it came creeping back as it always did as soon as their embrace was broken.

Rain began to drizzle through the sky as Harry pulled his shirt back over his head. Ginny handed him his glasses and he took them with soft hands. They barely spoke again until Harry's fingers were grazing his portkey.

"I love you," he whispered, though there was no one else in the room.

Ginny's eyes dipped to the floor for a moment. She sucked in a great breath and tried to smile. She grabbed his other hand and pressed it to her warm face. "I love you, too," she murmured into his calloused palm.

Harry stroked her cheek with his thumb. "See you soon." And then he was gone.

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**A/N: **Did you like it?? I hope so!! And to answer one reviewer's question about Seamus not apparating away from the chase scene... it just slipped my mind, honestly. I hadn't considered that possibility and perhaps neither did he? Ha, I don't know. It just worked for the story. And for another reviewer, I've tried to shorten the paragraphs! I went back and re-read some things online and I guess I do enjoy rambling sometimes... like this!

Please leave a comment or question or suggestion for me! I love reading them. Have a great rest of the week!

Katie


	25. Brace Yourself

**EDIT!! This is still chapter twenty-five, only I've done some major adding and editing to its content. Please review this, if you would, before moving onto chapter twenty-six. Thank you! **

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**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP! :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone... another Wednesday update - actually, a double! I've redone this chapter, because it's come to my attention that my writing has been somewhat lacking. It's still got the same content and plot in it, I've just tried to inject it with the enthusiasm I started this story with. I really do hope you enjoy it more than you did the original chapter twenty-five.

Thank you so much for reviewing this and bringing it to my attention! Read on...

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Viktor crumpled the piece of parchment in his fist with one swift motion. His anger had reached such a level that he threw the trash on the floor and hissed, "Damnit! All to _hell_!" He stood and crossed the room, his hands grasping the sides of his head in a fit. This was it, he thought, it was over. All the waiting and searching and hope, all of it was gone. Seamus had been abducted by The Shop and that was it. Now there was concrete proof of it – a letter written by Hidalgo Skillen himself.

"Shit!" Viktor screamed. His face was a horrid rouge and his fingers were curling stiffly into claws. "_Fuck!_" He kicked over a trashcan sitting close to his desk. Frustration surrounded him like a suffocating cocoon, worming its way thickly around his head and neck. His muscles contracted and Viktor found he could not control the way his arms shook.

Everything – goddamnit, _everything_ – he had worked for had vanished in mere seconds. The last whispers of faith had finally trickled out of his cupped hands. That simple fact drove its way through his mind, shooting red-hot licks of flame down his body. The fire was enveloping his core and slurring his sight and impeding his rationality. There was no longer a bright side, as far as Viktor could tell. It was all shot straight to hell.

There was a knock on his office door and he did not notice. Instead, he tore down the drapes that covered his only window and mutilated them into a ball. He let the fabric drop onto the floor and jerked himself across the room. The fire burned deep in his legs and arms, causing them to twitch and shudder at random. He groaned as he kicked the heap, as his foot tangled in the mess. The door opened anyway and revealed his secretary, her eyes wide and mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Get out!" Viktor roared, turning on her. His voice had a hoarse, dangerous ring to it that scared the woman badly.

Vivienne simply nodded and exited, slamming the door loudly behind her in her haste to leave. It was not her first time dealing with his aggravation. Viktor found he quiet relished the loud bang and almost let a growl escape his lips. He only wanted to exert himself, to tire his muscles out and drain his mind of the bad news, to hang limp. Viktor found himself in front of his file cabinet and reached out to push it down. However, as his fingers brushed the metal, the shock of how cold it was registered in his mind. His fingers tightened around the sharp corner, ready to shove, but he found himself slowing.

Viktor leaned against the cabinet and tried to focus. Why couldn't he just stop now? Had he really wanted to growl at his own secretary? How foolish he must have looked and the slow burn of embarrassment only added to his sudden despair. What had driven him to this madness, anyway?

Viktor shut his eyes tightly and began to put everything in slow motion. It was a practice that usually kept his head cool, his sanity intact. It was like having instant play-by-play that would repeat until he understood the gist of everything. It would work for him now, too.

He had received an unmarked letter that morning. It lay on his desk looking perfectly normal – tan parchment with slight ink blots from where the liquid had seeped through the page – and it had stayed there for hours. Viktor realized he should have been suspicious all along. He _never _received 

Official mail that didn't have Vivienne's loopy cursive scrawled on the front. However, there had been what seemed like more pressing matters at the time and he had only gotten to tearing open the seal after he had drank his fourth cup of coffee with lunch.

_To Mr. Viktor Krum,_ it had begun. Innocent enough, Viktor had thought when he found no name on the front.

_I have him. Enclosed is a gift he wanted you to have._

_Yours,_

_H. Skillen_

Viktor's pulse was thrumming in his head as he read the text again and again. There was nothing except the parchment. His hands flipped the paper over shakily, but there was nothing at all written on the back. Not a name, address, or even a seal, broken or fixed. Viktor read the letter again. He recognized the flourished signature at the bottom and he comprehended the two sentences. However, it was quite another matter of putting them both together.

Suddenly, there was a flash of green and something small landed in his lap. Viktor jumped up and stared at the ground, his eyes searching the floor wildly. He saw dried, crusty blood first – it stood out against the rug definitely. Lying in the brown scuds was a tiny, pink… thing. Viktor bent down to pick it up, though his mind had already determined it to be something tragic and disgusting. His fingertips closed around one of Seamus Finnigan's toes. As quickly as he had figured out what it was, Viktor let it fall back to the floor. He shuddered as his fingers numbed. His stomach – usually so strong – flipped instantly.

Just as it did then, Seamus' face warped in front of his eyelids. His screams filled Viktor's ears with ghostly eeriness. A strong urge to cry hit him and it was all Viktor could do to restrain himself. He wasn't only upset because his hope had been dashed, but also because his colleague – his friend – was in grave danger. His sacrifice was heart wrenching and so totally unnecessary. Why? Viktor drew a great breath and the nightmare vanished.

Now, what was he going to do? It wasn't a question of despair or resignation, but a simple inquiry as to a plan. Though he thought it was a bit cruel, that was the way his mind worked. He was very businesslike and attentive, no matter the personal cost. The years of clawing his way through the Order had accustomed him to this. Viktor would have to tell all of his departments to be on alert – to put up the red card in the 'level' spot in the workroom. He would then strategize with his officers and put together a plan of attack. Such an affront would warrant that much. He would have to contact Seamus' family – though there wasn't any – and then his friends. He imagined Ginny's face crumpling as he spoke the words and confirmed their fears. There was a sting at the corner of his eyes.

Viktor sighed, scrubbed at his face, and went to sit down at his desk. It had been selfish to go on a tantrum. He could have spent that time wisely and already started on something, _anything_. All this 

time he was wasting… it would surely come back to haunt him. Seamus didn't have the luxury and Viktor decided he would go without.

--

"Gus!" Hermione called into the gusts of wind billowing off the ocean. She breathed in warm salt and went to call again, "Gus! Here!" The sand gave beneath her feet as she stepped outside the door. It was a familiar sensation by now, but it still made her heart thud as her sturdy composure was shaken. She squinted into the sunset and was pleasantly surprised to see the old dog bounding up the dunes. Granted, he was going slowly, but Gus was still the playful dog he had always been.

Gus soon joined her and licked her knees as a friendly greeting. Foam rolled off his lips and Hermione made a face as the dog trotted past her into the house. He was _really_ still that rollicking, frothy beast she had met the previous year. She let the screen door slam shut behind her as she made her way into the living room. Gus' nails clipped across the wood of the floor and Hermione followed the sound until they both reached the living room. Ron was already there, lounging in her chair, his head lolling to the side. He had fallen asleep as Hermione washed their dinner's dishes, the gushing of water out of the sink spigot serving as his white noise.

Hermione smiled as her eyes swept over the vast collection of freckles across his nose. The sun had amassed twice the amount he usually wore and she quite liked it. She watched his chest beneath his shirt grow and shrink with his breath. It was deep and even and soothing. Hermione touched his hair softly and tried not to notice how her fingers tingled as they brushed through the vibrant crimson mess. His eyebrow twitched and Hermione withdrew her hand quickly, almost guiltily. She blushed and went to the sofa to read. She plucked her book out of his slack hands and sat.

The cover opened smoothly, effortlessly and Hermione felt at ease. She pulled her legs underneath her body and brushed her knuckles over the back of the page. It felt smooth – kind of like skin. She imagined the raised ink letters as freckles, specking and dotting the paper. Another strange reminder of Ron. She couldn't concentrate on the text – she hadn't been able to for days now – and her eyes kept flashing up to meet his lidded ones. There was an agitation deep inside of her that made her legs restless and her fingers ache, but something she could not address… yet.

There was a quiet now, even as Gus yawned and circled around Ron's feet. He took a noiseless seat and shut his eyes. A perfect imitation, Hermione mused. She was able to make sense of a few paragraphs, but mostly she was comforted by the fact she was holding a book. It didn't matter if she read it or not. Her eyes began to droop as they shifted from the man and dog to her book and back again.

"Hermione," it was not Ron's voice that spoke. It was quiet enough not to wake him, though. It certainly gave Hermione quite a fright, as she was staring at Ron's sleeping face as her name was spoken not inches from her own ear.



She jerked around and came face-to-face with Viktor. Her fingers clutched onto the back of the sofa and her eyes slid into slits. He was bent over, his breath hot on her face. He was not in good humor.

"What?" she hissed. "What are you doing here?" Words were not coming fast enough. Images of Viktor's last visit were bouncing around in her tired mind, giving her glimpses of her own redden face and Viktor promising furtively something very important. Her mind was not grasping everything, but it was coming to her. Even now, she could feel unexplainable heat rising on the back of her neck. She lunged off the couch, stumbling as her feet collided with the floor, and stood inches from him. "What could you possibly want?"

"Listen," his voice was hurried, rushed, panicked. Viktor saw the horror glowing in Hermione's eyes and was frightened that she would not give him enough time to explain fully. "I know I promised not to come back until it was time for you to leave, but this is _important_. It's about Seamus. It's about the Shop." His hands were stretching out to her.

Hermione shoved him. She put all of her might into heaving his bulk away from her. There was a fury in her body that she didn't know she harbored. "Why the fuck would I want to know about that?" Tears stung at her eyes. Now her memories were bright and brilliant in her mind. "I told you not to talk about it! You promised me!" She was shouting now, her hands in fists. She punched him in the arm, hard enough to make Viktor recoil. He looked shocked. "You're not here to take us back! You _lied_!"

Gus was now by Hermione's legs, his breath coming in pants and heaves. He recognized Viktor and knew he was no threat – he was gentle, firm. However, he was there to protect Hermione and Ron and that was his goal. He glanced back to Ron and saw that his master was stirring.

Ron was woken by the yelling and came to his senses drearily. He rubbed his forehead and rolled his head to crack the joints in his shoulders. His eyes slipped open and the scene before him was almost a dream. Gus' fresh bark was the deal breaker – letting him know that this was more serious than he originally thought. He knew the previous voice to be Hermione's, but he had thought she was shouting at _him_. It happened often enough now that he had learned to ignore it for the most part. However, this was different – there was a man in his living room.

"Look what you did," Viktor hissed at her, turning red in the face. He was scowling, panic now coiling in his stomach. The last thing he wanted was to speak to Ron, to have his betrayl of Hermione made public. "I wanted to avoid that."

"You deserve it!" Hermione returned loudly, punching his arm again. The rage was not subsiding, not an inch. Her knees were shaking beneath her, though the last thing on her mind was falling. She wanted to grab Viktor and shake him until he disappeared again. It wasn't fair.

Ron was standing now, frowning. He recognized Viktor and his fright had dissolved into great dislike. Their fight was still on his mind. "What are you doing here?" his eyes were squarely on Viktor. He looked somehow different… older. The change did not suit him well.



"It's about Seamus," Viktor told him sternly. He could face Ron, he _could_. "I wanted to tell you something very important, but Hermione doesn't want to hear it." He turned to the woman standing before him. He would take the repugnance on her face, the vile glint in Ron's eyes as his disloyalty was made known. He was a strong enough man to take it – the matter of Seamus was more important than a couple of hurt emotions. "Even though it's his life we're talking about," he added as a bitter afterthought.

"Don't you talk to me like that," Hermione whispered, drawing herself away from him. She felt Ron at her side and felt like they were a force now. Even Gus was sitting at her feet. A snarl was almost on her lips, hatred searing inexplicably through her. She did not abhor Viktor – he was a very dear friend – but she no longer respected him, trusted him. Her hope, her confidence was now held in only one person. She had a side and Ron was on it.

"What about Seamus?" Ron wanted to know, glancing from Hermione to Viktor and then back again. Confusion bristled down his arched back, but he would not speak on it. He wouldn't know how phrase it, even if wanted to. "You didn't find him yet, did you?" his question was almost a sneer. What other reason did Viktor have to be here?

"We did," Viktor bit. "He's with the Shop."

"_Prove it!_" Hermione screamed uncontrollably. Tears fell like rainfall and her own voice sounded shrill and bitter as it rang through the room. Ron was close at hand, but she took matters into her own hands. "You liar! Prove it!" She felt herself leaning towards Viktor as her fists came out again.

Ron swept forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. He was baffled by Hermione's strange behavior – she had never physically acted on any angered notion. What had Viktor told her that had made her so upset? Whatever it was, he didn't like it.

"Stop it," he told her firmly, though his eyes were on Viktor. He drew Hermione closer to him and waited for an answer. He could practically feel her pulse leaping out of her body. The mystery continued. Hermione stiffened under his touch.

Viktor stood tall and unmoving, even as fear slipped down his spine. He tried to keep his face motionless. Hermione's reaction scared him badly and he was not looking forward to speaking with Ron. "It's true," his voice was deep and authoritative. "I received a letter from an H. Skillen and confirmed it with my superiors. Seamus is with them as we speak. We suspect he was caught quite a while ago."

Hermione sobbed quietly, dejectedly. She leaned against Ron's lanky body and felt his grip around her shoulders tighten. It was the only thing keeping her standing. Frustration pounded through her body, as she knew hitting Viktor would accomplish nothing. She wanted to so terribly, though! It was a shocking, horrific idea, but her fingers still ached with want. She did not want to leave it all up to Ron, but her knees were buckling already. Viktor had _promised – _made a _vow_ to her face – not to return until it was time to take them both home. She felt ghastly for not thinking of Seamus first, but her want – her need – to go back to London was a monster inside her.



Ron balked at the news. It had been such a long time since he had heard anything from Seamus – it seemed impossible that he could've fallen into something so horrible. His friendship had fallen into something faded and weak. It had happened with all of his family – their faces were smudged, their voices static – and Seamus was no different. Part of him felt for Hermione, too, as she had already endured what their friend was sure to be put through. That was why she was reacting so strongly to the news. Her nightmares were fresh and constant. He fumbled with his words. "Why are you here, then?" His confusion was dissipating, being replaced with anger. "Why aren't you out there getting him back?"

Hermione's gaze darted up to meet Viktor's, challenging him. He swallowed. He was sure that Hermione was going to out his treacherousness at any moment – or worse, force him to reveal himself.

"I wanted you to know," he chose his words carefully. "Things are very dangerous now and you should be on alert. The Shop has Finnigan and they want Hermione, too." Viktor heaved a sigh and glared at the two of them, despite his fear. "And they know about you, too, Ron. I'm afraid they know just about everything and I can't keep anyone in the dark any longer. I can't take you home, but I can tell you what's happening."

Hermione gave a strangled growl, but said nothing further. She contemplated blurting the whole thing out to Ron, but that would make her look childish. Revenge just for the sake of hurting someone was not worth it and she would still have a hole through her heart. Silence enveloped them. It gave her a chance to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She had to be stronger. It gave Viktor the chance to regroup, to consider his options. Ron was stiff and still, waiting.

"Can't we do anything?" he asked, finally. He hated the feeling of helplessness – it had been his companion for so many years that his shoulders almost dropped with imaginary burden. His voice was scratchy and deep.

Viktor shook his head. "There's not much anyone can do at the moment. I have to return to The Order and try to get some semblance. There's going to be a plan and we're going to get him back." Just saying it seemed to fortify his resolve a bit, brought up strength that he needed. "As quickly as possible, and you have to believe me."

Viktor's eyes were on Hermione's sullen face and then they jumped to Ron's wide ones. He could tell his words were doing nothing for the couple. He sighed.

"What does that have to do with us?" Hermione asked in a clipped tone. There was no reason to be civil at a time like this.

Viktor had no idea what to tell them. He had wanted to visit the two – they were as close to friends as he could really get – and all he found was disappointment. He had broken his promise and he realized that, but he couldn't stay away. Not when his future second-in-command was gone and his friends were holed up in an Undisclosed Location. He couldn't tell Hermione or Ron that, especially now, and it made his chest burn. He wanted them to know he was hurting and they were not alone, but he 

knew his words – no matter how clear or muddled – would fall on deaf ears. Nothing he could say would make an ounce of difference.

"Well?" Hermione snipped. Viktor almost stumbled backwards, staggering with defeat.

"It's very important that you're well-informed," Viktor told them both lamely. The hint of pleading had left his voice, leaving him sounding very tired and awkward. He was supposed to be a professional now, not just their friend. "I thought you might care, but this is also about your safety, now that the Order may have been compromised. If anything strange or suspicious happens, let Gus know. Don't go outside anymore. Don't answer the door."

"How are we supposed to fight if we don't have any protection?" Ron asked seriously. Half the conversation may have gone above his head, but he could still grasp the main concept. "And God help you if you mention that dog. Gus doesn't serve any purpose, except to be your fly-on-the-wall. Honestly, if Skillen came here the moment you left, there's no way you would know until it was too late. That's what happened to her," Ron gestured to Hermione, "and that's what happened to Seamus."

Viktor thrust his hand into his pocket and produced two wands. "Here," he said gruffly, truly offended by Ron's implication that he was the reason his friends had been hurt. Hermione snatched the wands from out of his slack grip, careful not to touch him. She shot him a vicious look and turned her back on him. Viktor turned to grab the portkey out of his jacket, but tilted his head backwards to ask one final question.

"Do you really think I could do that to you?" his eyes were slits by now. "I've known you all for years – I take your lives as my responsibility. That will never change, even if you do decide to paint me as the villain in your story."

There was a crack and Viktor vanished. Hermione and Ron gazed at the empty spot where he once stood, unblinking. Both of them wanted to forget him, but his words were powerful and hung in the air thickly, dully. Hermione felt numb, her arms dangling at her sides. She felt a floating sensation as Ron stepped away. Fazed, she turned to watch him go.

"Where are you going?" she asked quietly, her lips raw from her teeth grating down on them. She received no answer.

Ron's heart was beating almost out of his chest. His erratic pulse filled his ears as he tore down the hallway, each footfall quicker than the last. There was a plan growing in the back of his mind. It had been there a while now, but it had taken the visit from Viktor to push it over the edge. Yes, he told himself, this was the time. His hand grasped the doorknob and he rushed to his bed. Kneeling, Ron felt underneath the bed skirt for something very important.

Ron slung the pack over his shoulder and felt a new sort of wonder determination from his chest. He could be a new man… at the least he could return to who he was before this had all started. He had the chance to be happy, to be content, and to be free. Just thinking of it made his resolve steel – made him a bit angry that he hadn't been able to work up the courage before. He could have Hermione 

and that was all that mattered now. He strode across the room, shining with his newfound goal, and knew that he would stay in this home no longer.

Hermione was staring at him when he finally returned, looking as if she had been struck. There were dark circles under her bloodshot eyes and wetness still resting on her upper lip. She still looked beautiful and that was when Ron knew he had to go. She deserved so much better than what she had been dealt. He had the ability to fix it – fix her – finally.

"What are you doing?" her voice was quiet, sad. "What is that?" Her small hands reached out to grab loosely at the front of his shirt. She did not understand where that hard look on Ron's face came from – he knew nothing of Viktor's secret visit before. Had he figured it out? Was he upset with her? She hoped there was nothing like it – she simply couldn't take it.

Ron's breath came in great gasps, like he was just surfacing from a long stay underwater. His hands were almost shaking, his stomach in knots. His fingers gripped the strap of his pack as he shuffled closer to her. He watched her eyes dip from his face to study his newest addition and her mouth twisted to the side. God, she looked so… beautiful. Broken and hurt, but strangely and wondrously striking. It was as if all the layers of the past had been stripped away to reveal this stunning woman standing before him. He had been stupidly oblivious to it all before, but now fate had dealt him another chance.

Ron took one last deep breath and plunged back under the water. He dipped his head and pressed his lips firmly against hers, his hand reaching to hold the soft part of the back of her neck. His fingers grazed her skin and it felt warm and welcoming beneath his touch. It was nothing like she had felt when she was hurt – when he was hurt, too – and Ron knew he could remove their fractured past with this kiss. It was the most important thing in the world. Her curls tickled his cheeks and he was so glad for once in his life that everything was going to change.

There was nothing concrete anymore, Hermione's mind dizzily registered as she realized that Ron was kissing her. His lips were full and dry as they brushed past hers, searing their print on hers. She questioned if this was just another tragic daydream happening in the dredges of consciousness. She wasn't even sure he was until he pulled away a moment later. His eyes were large and glassy and staring right at her. His hand was resting heavily on the back of her neck. Hermione was so elated that words simply refused to form on her tongue, not even allowing her to smile. _This had actually happened_.

Ron pulled Hermione to him and kissed her once again, hard and quick. He could not believe the limits his nerves let him push. His stomach was tight and his jaw ached, but he did not notice. His fingers weaved in her hair, relishing in the softness of it. That was all he could stand. He drew his face away again, realizing she wasn't moving. Hermione was lax in his grasp and so he kissed her a third time in the same manner, not caring if she was protesting. He knew that he had to let himself go.

Ron almost smiled, his lips tugging upward as he watched Hermione struggle with herself. He liked the way her brow furled and her lips puckered and her cheeks flush. She had no idea how to react. This was really happening – his life was finally his to live. Weight was being lifted off his chest as the 

seconds ticked away. His plan was solid in his mind and this was just the beginning. It was Hermione's turn, now.

Hermione wasn't frowning when she finally gazed up at Ron. She swallowed, breathed, and found that words were still lost, unfortunately. She thought about chiding him – how could he be so insistent, foolish? – but knew that those remarks would never escape her lips. She would not let herself speak a bad word against him. Her hands clutched tighter at him and she drew strength from his warmth. Ron was hers again.

Ron bent and stuck his forehead against hers. His breath was hot and fast on her face, but she barely noticed. "I'm leaving," he told her. The rest came in a rush, like he was falling from a high place. "I don't care what Viktor told us and I don't care about the rules anymore. I'm going to find Seamus and end this."

"You can't be serious," Hermione blurted out. Her face took on a sour, anxious twist. Her hands clenched tightly, almost painfully against him now. Her heart hurt. "What?"

Ron shook his head, his head butting softly against hers. Now, he really was smiling. Precious adrenaline was coursing thick and hot through his body, making it hum and sway. He could be a fool. "I'm going to find the Shop, Hermione. I'm going to find Seamus."

"You can't!" Hermione almost screamed at him. What was he thinking? Her hands clumped into fists around the fabric of his shirt. She searched his face and found nothing in the way of explanation. "Ron, please be serious. I know what Viktor said was upsetting, but you can't just leave." she breathed, her eyebrows knit. Her exhilaration was far from over, but it was twisting into worry and panic.

Ron did not have an answer to dissuade her as she stared incredulously into his face.

"How?" she whispered, anguish ripping through her. "How do you expect to do this, Ron?"

"I have no idea," Ron laughed gruffly, his whole body shaking with nerves. He hadn't felt this… relieved, unburdened in years. "All I know is that I'm getting out of here. I'm tired of doing this – staying hidden, being told what to do, taking everything that's dumped on me. I miss the life I had a long time ago… before I lost you." Ron sighed and licked his lips nervously, but his mouth would not stay closed. "But now I have you again. And I know I can help make this situation better. It's something I know I have to do – _trust me_."

Hermione shut her eyes tight and resisted the urge to moan. Instead, she let his speech wash over her in a cool wave. _But now I have you again…_ The sentence played repeatedly in her mind. It was soothing, but it would not make the situation disappear. Could she trust him not to kill himself – could she really? Could she trust him to take her heart and not break it?

Ron took her silence in stride and pecked her cheek. It was that easy – it always had been, hadn't it? There was no stopping him, was there? God, where had this feeling been for so long – where 

had it been hiding inside of him? He pecked the other side of her face. Her skin felt so soft, so lovely. He knew leaving her would be harder with each embrace, but wanted to redeem himself.

Hermione's mouth tugged upwards, but did not betray a grin. She was still guarded, obviously surprised and not well-informed on Ron's latest plan. She remembered the unabashed, hardheaded way he would make decisions – but he had never planned on something this important. She was not sure if she could lend out her heart like that – not again.

"You can't just go," she whispered to him, her head shaking in rhythm with his. This was delusional –all of it – and she couldn't bear to part with it, not for the world. Not when she had just realized this moment as tangible, true.

"I will," Ron returned defiantly. "All you have to do is trust me. That's all."

"What are you going to do, Ron?" Hermione asked him, trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears. "You don't even know where to go. You have no idea where they have Seamus. You could get yourself killed. Don't be so foolish – you've barely thought this over."

Ron's head bobbed viciously back and forth. "Don't say things like that," he murmured. "And I have thought this over… and over and over again. I couldn't just stay locked up without creating an escape plan." She glared up at him, not understanding the effect of his words. He sighed and continued, "What if The Shop came for us instead, Hermione? I wasn't about to let us go undefended. I was just going to use it as back-up, but I know that this is the time for me to… I don't know, go? I absolutely know that I can't stay here any longer."

"No!" Hermione exclaimed. "_You_ don't say things like that. You can't just leave me here by myself to wander about the countryside until an Agent abducts you, too!" Her old bitterness came up as vile in the back of her throat and she almost choked on it. How _could_ he? "I won't let you!"

"I have to do this." Ron backed away from her, keeping Hermione at arm's length. His body physically ached for her embrace again, sending him reeling. "I honestly can't explain it without sounding downright crazy. I know I can't." He reached out to touch her hair again, letting it cascade through his fingers. "But I know that you'll trust me –right?"

Hermione's eyelids felt heavy as she glared up at him. Her brave façade would not hold much longer. It had been quite a night already and the sun hadn't even completely set yet. She didn't want to lose two people tonight. She found Ron's face was set in a hard, determined expression. She recognized it well – a face from childhood. Some things a person never really grew out of, and Ron's vice was defiance, tunnel vision. He was waiting for her answer and oh, did she have remarks to make.

Something stopped her from lashing out at him – something unexplainable to anyone else but herself. And she understood somewhat why Ron could not put his crazed mission into words. It was just something that had to be done. She considered her options with a straight face, though her heart was thrumming in her chest. She crossed her arms to try and hide it.



"It's settled then, isn't it?" she asked flatly, a little while later.

The adrenaline was pumping slower and slower now, but Ron's resolve did not falter. He had spent days upon weeks upon months mulling over this plan. Maybe he wouldn't use it, but then again… this was the perfect chance. It was something fresh, new, and needed. True, he had no idea where he was or where he was going, but he would learn. Seamus did not have much longer and neither did Ron.

Ron nodded and replied with a resounding, "Yes. It is."

Hermione turned her back on him. She bit her lip to keep the tears from escaping behind her lids. She folded her arms tight across her chest and heaved a dry sob. She knew what she was going to do, but that didn't mean she wanted to go through with it. Then, as quickly as it came, she was done. No more crying, no more sadness. She stood rooted to her spot.

Ron waited for a few minutes, expecting a verbal lashing at any moment. Once it was over, he would kiss her goodbye again and head out into the night. Maybe he would come back for another peck. He would walk to the nearest town and get on a train or bus and then… who knew? He would find his way. He failed to recognize that he was romanticizing his plan. He reached out a large hand and placed it on Hermione's shoulder. "Listen-"

Hermione jerked underneath his touch, twisting so she was facing him again. "I'm coming with you," her voice was firm and unmoving. She stared up at Ron, daring him to contradict her. It had been a while since her resolve had been so stiff and unwavering and she quite liked the feeling.

"What?" he asked, caught very much off guard. He withdrew his hand as if he had been shocked. What had she just said?

"I'm coming with you," Hermione said slowly. She held his eyes steadily, unblinking. She feared to move, as if she would crumble to the floor.

"No," Ron replied, surprised. "You can't." He barely understood his own hardheadedness, let alone _hers_.

"Yes," Hermione bit, "I _can_. If you feel you can walk out on everything Viktor's worked for, then so can I. We've made it together this far. As I see it now, it's all or nothing. You brought this upon us, Ron, not me."

Ron's face crinkled into distaste, but he mentally chided himself. It was not like Hermione to lay down and take things, either. She was a firecracker and it was now that he realized what exactly he had gotten himself into. "All or nothing," he mused sourly.

Hermione nodded, frowning. Her heart was busting beneath her arms. She hoped with all her might that Ron would buy her stubborn act. Her knees wavered precariously beneath her weight as her arms grew uncomfortably stiff. She would not budge.



Ron knew she wouldn't budge and his shoulders slumped slightly. "There's a knapsack underneath your mattress," he told her gravely. "Only get it if you're _absolutely serious_ about this."

"You have no idea where you're going," Hermione countered, "but I do. I've been there, Ron. I can get us there. You need me." She needed him, too. There was no place that he could go that she would not follow, even if she was unwanted. Hermione could be stubborn, too.

"In more ways than one," he replied. It was settled. Ron almost grateful for her defiance – his choice was a little easier. However, the decision had brought a new wave of worry flowing over his body. Hermione would come with him and he would have to protect her, care for her, more than he did now. What about her weight, her bones? She was too skinny, too pale, too… loved to be put through such a test. Her safety was top priority.

Hermione brushed past him before he had time to notice the blush flourishing across her cheeks. Her rebelliousness had risen quick and easily in her chest and stayed there even now, allowing her to bask in her accomplishment without fear. She knelt in front of her bed and felt a solid lump on the floor beneath it. He really had prepared one for her, as well. A new jolt of excitement rushed through her as she stood to join Ron once again.

He was standing solemnly in the kitchen. Gus was sitting by his feet, whimpering. He scratched the dog's ears for a while. She swallowed a lump in her throat, wondering what Ron would do with their friend. Surely he wouldn't kill Gus, would he? She watched as Ron led the dog to the backdoor and relief washed over her. He opened it and ordered Gus outside. The dog did not hesitate, but glanced behind him often to see the determination in his master's eyes. He whined softly and watched Ron picked up his food and water dishes and placed them on the outdoor patio. Ron gently shut the door with a bent head, trying not to listen to Gus' begging and pleading to be let back in. There was a scratch at the door and Ron left the room.

"Are you ready?" he asked, walking towards her.

"Yes," Hermione breathed. She hadn't even thought about Gus' wellbeing, and guilt was building in her stomach. She hoped the poor, old dog would be alright left alone in the dunes.

Ron kissed her fiercely, his hands on both sides of her face. Hermione grabbed at his shirt and then tangled her fingers in his hair. Her worries faded a touch, only to be replaced with a much more… electrifying feeling. Ron cupped her tiny ears and let his fingers trace the slope of her neck as his lips smashed against hers. A white haze appeared behind his closed eyes, almost euphoric. Hermione held tight to him, like at any moment he would let go. Every time his lips left hers for air, she searched for his mouth with twice the amount of urgency, passion. It felt too good to be true.

Ron pulled away, panting. "Good," he mumbled. He walked past her, catching Hermione's hand in his, and pulled open the door. He wanted to get out of the damned house.



The pair stood in the doorframe and stared out at the lonely, black countryside. Stars littered the night sky, the moon providing the only light to walk by. It was intimidating, but somewhere out there held the promise of escape and that was all they needed.

"Are you sure?" Ron's voice rumbled deep in his chest.

Hermione did not reply. She walked out the front door and caught his hand in hers, tugging him towards the towering blackness.

**A/N: **Did you like it better this time around? I hope you did. :) Everyone have a nice week!

Please leave a comment, question, or criticsm before you go!

Katie


	26. Closing In

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone! Can you believe it, me actually updating on a Wednesday... on time? Haha, I really appreciate all of you who continue to read this story even through the sparse, sporadic updates. It was brought up in a review by TheDivaDevine that my work has been pretty lackluster these past few chapters and I must say I looked back at them and agree with the critique. There's no reason for it and I'm shamefaced about it. Usually I spread the writing of the chapter around all week - working on a few paragraphs here and there everyday - but in the past month or so I've written entire chapters in one sitting. It's because I've got somewhere to go or a deadline to meet and the actual content of the chapter is really suffering because of it. As an apology and promise to try harder, **I rewrote the last chapter** - it was big enough to warrant it. If you'd like to click back to chapter twenty-five right now, you won't be disappointed. I worked really hard this time and I feel proud about it. I want to thank TheDivaDevine for WRITING IT TO ME IN ALL CAPS! It got my attention, trust me. :)

Anyway, hopefully this chapter will work its way back up to par. There were some questions about why the couple couldn't use magic in their journey and I tried to weave the explanation into the story. There's some good Ron/Hermione stuff that I really enjoyed writing. I hope you like it!

* * *

The hills were the toughest part of the hike, Hermione had decided. After crossing clear, cold streams and after picking their way down rocky shorelines and after trekking through damp forests, the endless amounts of rolling hills were definitely the worst part. They never ended – even now as she looked out across the bright country – they just kept going up and down and sprawling into each other and amassing. Her legs were burning, as was her chest. She huffed quite loudly to show her reluctance to continue.

"Break?" Ron's voice rang deep through the misty morning air. He was leading, his face turned towards the sun and the unpredictable. His lungs filled with chilly breath. It invigorated him beyond his own belief. His body was pushing to keep on, amazingly. His legs took him longer; farther than he had imagined they would. It felt like an old mission trip, only with Hermione by his side. Unlike his old crewmates, she needed rest frequently. Sadly, his shoulders turned him and his eyes focused on her weathered face. He saw why he had put up with her nagging and whining – just the look in her eyes made him feel more exhilarated than nature ever could.

Hermione nodded, her head bobbing carelessly on her shoulders. Her face collected the tiny beads of dew floating freely through the breeze. The mist kept the sheen of sweat that had appeared on her forehead at bay. Sagging, she threw down her pack and then took a seat atop the bulk. She pressed her hands against her forehead and the ache that resided there seemed to lessen. It was a trick that she had learned early on in the duration of the trip. She listened as Ron's feet rustled through the fresh grass and stopped next to her. He squatted and took out a tiny flask of water.

His fingers twisted over the cork. It popped out easily and Hermione accepted the carafe obligingly. Though her first swing would have emptied the bottle, the water poured over her lips in a steady stream. It was another one of Ron's charmed inventions found in the depths of her pack. She took the few seconds of silence to glance over at him. It seemed that she spent most of the journey staring at the soles of his shoes or the back of his coppery head. He was watching her, his face drawn in concentration. She blushed, still sipping from the flask.

"Does any of this look familiar?" Ron asked, tilting his chin to the scenery all around them. His eyes remained on hers, a concerned look on his face. They had been walking for days and the vast span of land was certainly foreign to him. It made him doubt if they were really in the correct spot. He certainly didn't want a whole week's worth of traveling to be for nothing, but really had no concrete idea of where they were.

Everything had been strange from the start – it had taken a whole day to realize they were in Spain and headed in completely the wrong direction. Hermione had wanted to apparate, but it simply wasn't possible. Hermione was the only one to have a clear picture in her head of exactly where to apparate, but unfortunately that glimpse was the living room of the Main House. There was no safe way of getting to Russia with magic. Ron certainly didn't want to be found by Viktor, either, so their wands were tucked closely next to his hip. They had walked and taken trains and hitchhiked under assumed names until their money supply ran out. Ron was worrying all the time now that their food supply had gotten low as well.

Hermione blinked as she swallowed, feeling the chill buzz throughout her entire body. It was no longer just on the skin, but inside as well. She shook inside her jacket. Her mind would not stay put for more than a few seconds – always reverting back to the fact she was cold – and it frustrated her to no end. Her eyes scanned the damned hills determinedly and she was almost surprised when a vague sort of recognition tapped in her mind.

"A bit," she replied softly, testing her voice in the open air. Hermione turned away from the sun and saw the morning shadows of the tall grass. The way they sounded when the wind blew through the reeds… that was familiar. Her ears perked.

Hermione twisted back to face Ron. His face was worn and long – he was tired. They were both weary. They were both scared, though Ron would never admit to it. She did not fear the unknown – she knew The Shop perfectly well – but she did dread what was to come. It was her own knowledge that frightened her. To comprehend The Shop's complete and total power was unnerving and fantastic. Hermione had to will her feet to carry her beside Ron, though her heart railed heavily against the decision. He was so headstrong, so confident – it hurt to keep up her appearance.

Ron frowned a bit and Hermione realized her answer wasn't exactly thorough. She sighed and really looked around; drawing on her brief memories of the place she once called home. A slight nausea accompanied the reminiscence. She had only been allowed outside the grounds of the Main House a few times and recalled mere pictures, glimpses from outside dirty windows and peeks out of cracked doors. She shuddered.

"We're definitely in Russia," Hermione confirmed. They had passed a crumbling sign posted on a tree a few towns ago that had a message in Russian. The letters were twisted and garish and something neither of them could decipher. Hermione had put her trust in Ron and followed him quietly. "Things are getting clearer as we keep going, but I really don't have a concise vision in my head."

"How much longer, do you think?" he asked, wanting to push her farther than he knew she would go. He just wanted an idea – some tiny thing to keep them going – and it was frustrating having to rely on another person to give it to him.

Hermione shrugged, feeling her tired bones resisting. She would have asked to take a nap, but Ron had snapped at her the last time she had asked. She sort of understood – Ron had traveled like this for a whole year with half the rest stops and food breaks – but didn't appreciate the tone he took. He knew she wasn't exactly up to par, especially with her legs in the condition they were in.

"Great," Ron sighed, dipping his head low. He gathered a few breaths. "We're in Russia."

"At least we made it this far," she snapped bitterly. Regretting her outburst, Hermione's face softened a little and she reached out to touch his shoulder. "Sorry," she mumbled, blushing. Her little spats were not needed and she felt a bit childish.

Ron only nodded, his eyes unfocused on the horizon line. He squinted and suddenly, his body froze. There was something out there – a dip in the landscape, a ripple in the grass that no wind could 

cause. The breeze was not the only sound rushing by his ears. There was water nearby – the trickle of a brook was not easily mistaken. Ron shot to his feet, unthinking. Auror training had taught him to stay close to natural features – rocks, streams, trees. Anything that could provide cover and food was worth following.

"I'll be right back," he muttered before trotting off. Hermione stared at his back confusedly. At least it was Ron doing the running and not her.

There was something out there, Ron discovered after walking a mile or so. Respite filled him as his eyes caught the glinting light that flickered and flowed off the water rushing westward. It was a beautiful sight, that little torrent. He reached down and dipped his fingers carefully beneath the surface. It was cold and pure. Ron practically ran the distance back to tell his companion.

"So?" Hermione responded after hearing the good news. She crossed her arms and hunched her back, disappointed that the news was not better. Then again, what exactly had she expected him to find?

"So," Ron responded hardly, "it should flow towards the ocean."

"That's not where we need to be," Hermione reminded him tartly. "We're heading east."

"Exactly," Ron stressed, "it's a straight shot. As long as we follow the river back to the heart, we'll make it there." He sort of expected her to understand… seeing as how she was always so much smarter than he was. He glared at her.

Fear shot through Hermione and made her sit rigid on her pack. _Back to the heart, _Ron had said, _we'll make it there. _She didn't_ want_ to go back. Her fingers clenched her flask and she hoped that Ron would not see how white her knuckles had become. The hunch in her back began to ache.

Ron had already started his way back to the stream, weaving through the calf-deep grass with his mind lost in thoughts. He realized he did not hear Hermione's familiar footsteps stamping close behind him. He turned and called, "Coming? I want to reach some sort of cover before nightfall."

"It's morning," Hermione bit, but rose stiffly to her feet still. Hoisting the pack on her shoulder, she began tramping through the damp weeds after the man who was going to drive her crazy. She had agreed to do this, she had to remind herself. Ron shot her a smile and she rolled her eyes. Her fear fell to the bottom of her stomach and began to fester slowly.

--

"Wait," Hermione's voice was quavering with chill and panic. The weather had grown miserably wintry as the day had passed. They had crossed over barren lands and they quickly became covered in ice. Now, they were trekking through half-inch deep snow. Feet frozen, Hermione stilled. Her head whipped from left to right, the scenery completely enveloping her senses.

The wind howled all around her, but she could not shake this feeling. This place was… familiar.

"What is it?" Ron's voice was muddled with disuse and he had to clear his throat on the back of his shaking hand. His eyes, however, were alert and focused on Hermione's dazed face.

"I've been here before," she whispered. _Once upon a time._ There was no arguing with the looming, purple mountain range thousands of miles in the distance, the rushing of the Kalaus River, the wood to their right. This was almost the exact spot Hermione's portkey had taken her to from England years ago. Back then, she had regarded the first sight as breathtaking and beautiful. It was certainly still breathtaking, but for a very different reason. The memory hit her hard in the chest and she stumbled backwards, reaching out in the arctic air. She had been filled with excitement then. Oh, how stupid she was.

Ron rushed forward and grabbed the straps of her rucksack. "Hermione!" he barked fiercely, bringing her to him. "Are you sure?" Could this really be it? How powerful could a memory truly be? His fingers rewrapped around her straps so he could pull her closer. Her face was flushed and her eyes were hazy and Ron wanted desperately to know.

Hermione refused to look him in the eye, her head rocking with the movement of his hands. She couldn't force the air into her lungs fast enough. She was reeling, choking on the past. Ulysses Nash had welcomed her with open arms not twenty feet from where Ron stood. She remembered how his hand felt in hers, the way his easy smile had almost charmed her. Hermione had to lean away to vomit. Tears slid down her face, hot at first but turning to ice before they reached her neck.

She had begun to recall several miles back, but had played it off as mere coincidence. The smell of damp leaves and mud mingled this specific way in places all over the world. Rocks all looked alike, anyway – even the elephant-sized boulders that littered the river. The damn grass rustled in fields spanning whole continents. She had not wanted to believe that she was nearing the very essence of her nightmares. She did not want to meet evil again.

Why – _why God?_ – had she agreed to come to this place? Hermione moaned and opened her eyes to see if it was truly real. She had certainly dreamed of this place before. However, she met Ron's worried stare and realized the reason she had bucked up the courage. He was standing right in front of her.

"Are you alright?" he was asking hurriedly. "Is this the place, or not?" Hermione had slouched beneath his grip and it was all he could do to keep her up. He brushed the hair back from her face as it softened, regretting that he had brought her along. He could barely feel her skin through the numbness in his fingertips, but the sensation of actually touching her was no less damaged. A slight thrill shot through his body. She shouldn't have come, but he couldn't turn her back now… not ever.

"Yes," Hermione swallowed. She stared back at Ron's bulbous, cobalt eyes and tried to memorize the way his wrinkles mapped the dips and planes of them. She never wanted to forget his gaze, if the end really was coming for her. "This is the exact place."

Ron ripped his look away from her and now it was his turn to survey their surroundings with frenzied interest. He saw nothing wrong – no houses, no people, no smoke, not even wind stirring up snowdrifts and dirt. "Are you good to walk?" his voice was gruff and distracted. He did not like being out in the open like this – it made him feel too… vulnerable. His suspicions kept rising, his pulse increasing alongside it.

"How much further?" Hermione asked, exasperated. Couldn't he appreciate how hard this was for her?

"Just to that wood," Ron replied, pointing to the trees in the distance. "That's all I'm asking, Hermione." He pleaded with her, his lips tight against his teeth. They needed to move, needed to hide, needed to plan. His instincts were practically pulling him towards the shelter, with or without Hermione. His feet stayed rooted for those precious seconds, though, knowing that he would never do such a thing.

Hermione nodded in quiet acquiescence. She could feel the urgency radiating off Ron's tall body and knew the time to put up a fight had long passed. Ron's fingers slipped from her lapels and she sagged backwards, but his hands laced with hers tightly a moment later. He tugged her the two miles, talking to her in a strangely gentle voice. "You can make it," he would repeatedly tell her, "It's just a bit further and you can rest for the rest of the night. I promise I won't make you walk any further. We're almost there. C'mon, you can make it." His thumb slid warm friction over the back of her palm. He would turn back and smile brightly, illuminated by the setting sun. He was her beacon, her encouragement.

Ron set up a small camp in a clearing deep into the forest only an hour later. It was a place touched lightly by snow, but sheltered from most of the loud, bitter wind. He ducked to avoid smacking his forehead against fir branches as he stretched a tarp from one trunk to another. It wasn't much, seeing as how he didn't want to practice magic so close to Headquarters, but Ron knew it would hold up for a night or two. He had bared much worse during his time as an Auror.

Hermione came toddling into sight only a few minutes later, hugging scrawny branches to her chest protectively. Her mouth was tight, but it held the trace of a smile – triumph. She grinned through the burning stiffness in her kneecaps and the ache in her ankles and the pounding in her head. "Here," she breathed, extending her grip and allowing the wood to scatter at her feet, "I found these. For the fire."

Ron gathered the wood silently, studying the sticks with a sour look he tried to hide. The branches had become wet and were basically useless as a starter. He piled them into a teepee anyway and pulled a lighter from his pack. His wand poked the side of his hip as a reminder that he could choose to use magic at any time, but he resisted as he remembered the danger that accompanied practicing. It attracted too much unwanted attention, especially if the Shop was looking for it. He had to remind himself he was no longer on home turf – they were situated on the threshold of their enemy, right under their nose. It sent a chill down his spine, but he tried to shake it off as the sharp evening chill.

Ron really tried to get the meager fire to spark, but it refused to live for more than a few seconds before disappearing into thick, gray smoke. He smiled apologetically up at Hermione, who sat only feet away with her knees drawn up to her chest and a grimace on her lips. He crawled over to huddle next to her and said nothing of their collective discontent. He did not want to incur yet another verbal lashing. So, instead, he sat and held her hand in his and pulled her close to his chest.

Hermione sighed, disappointed, but too tired to genuinely care. Her head throbbed and her calves stung terribly. She felt Ron's chin fit onto the crown of her hair and felt his breathing through her jacket and felt his warmth enveloping her in long, lanky arms. If only things could be different, she thought sadly, if only it was home they were searching for. She felt Ron's lips touch the part in her hair and she could not shake her melancholy.

The wind howled and raged around the pathetic tent for what seemed like hours. Ron was torn between attempting another fire or staying put to create a warmth only their bodies could create. His body was finally slowing and his belly was beginning to rumble softly. He would skip his meal tonight to save rations for tomorrow, but it would not last for long. Nothing would. The only thing he could do now was hold Hermione close and breathe in her scent and try to remember how her hair felt against his skin and her voice in his ears.

He spent almost every evening completing a ritual like the one he was practicing now – the memorization of Hermione. If something were to happen – the way it had three years ago – he would not be stranded with faint recollections. He would have strong pictures and sounds and smells. It was an awful thing to consider, but the alternative was something he refused to deal with again.

Hermione's breathing had evened and her eyes had shut. She had wanted to stay awake to spend more time with Ron, but her body would not allow it. She would have to settle for being held safe and warm while she slept. Her last thoughts had slipped away from her dreary regular self and had not dwelled on what was to come the next morning – only of the way Ron's coat smelled like his nutmeg scent and the way his knuckles were larger than the rest of his fingers as they rested on her shoulders. It was a lucky time.

Ron soon began to sway with slumber, his eyes glazing over as he stared out into the midnight that was as black as ink. It did not frighten him as he thought it might have, only steeled his resolve to find the man who had Seamus and who once had taken his Hermione. A silent promise ran through his head and he felt more relaxed. It even seemed like the wind had stopped blowing so hard against the trees. The tarps barely rippled in the breeze. Their blankets would hopefully keep them warm until morning.

There were footsteps. They were close. Ron's heart thudded, trying to convince the rest of his body that he had been hearing things. Yes, the crunching of ice and leaves was quiet, but it was too constant to be anything other than human. His body would not work fast enough to slip Hermione off his lap and rise to his feet in seconds. He grunted with the effort, but he was quickly thrown off course.

"Ron?" a voice hissed into the darkness and a small light flickered in the distance beyond the makeshift tent. "Hermione?"

"Who's there?" Ron growled hoarsely, reaching into his pocket. His fingers wrapped protectively around his wand – he would not hesitate to use its power now.

"It's me," the voice whispered back, "Harry."

**A/N:** Did you like it?? I tried to build some suspense at the end and I hope it worked! :) This story is first and foremost a love story, as I've tried to make pretty clear from the beginning, so no matter what situation Ron and Hermione are in, they will always take time out to think about their love. I'm so happy to be writing about a somewhat-resolved love.

Have a great week, everyone! Please leave me a review, questions, or suggestions. I greatly appreciate them - especially if they are a kick in the butt. :)

ALSO PS: Has anyone finished Breaking Dawn? I read it the night it came out! I am bursting with joy, even though I have to admit I was rooting for Jacob.

Katie


	27. Breathe

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HP :)

**A/N:** Hello everyone. I know it's not a Wednesday, but I feel really poorly about not updating for three weeks. I moved into college during this time, so please excuse me. It's been exhausting and exhiliarting with all the goodbyes and hellos. Dorm life is very different and I'm not completley used to it, yet. My room mate is very nice, though. :) At the same time, I miss home. Writing fan fiction is actually good practice at getting away from all my worries and hopefully it can get me through this homesickness. I'm glad I've outlined the ending, because thinking isn't really a strong suit of mine right now.

Anyway, dun dun duun - here is a turning point! And this chapter is not all about Ron and Hermione! Which could be a good or bad thing, depending on how much you like the two of them together. :) Thank you to all of you who continually read this, despite the lack of updates. I promise to see this one through. :)

* * *

"Harry?" Ron hissed through his clenched teeth. It was a possibility he had never considered. Even now, his mind had trouble believing that Harry Potter was standing outside the poorly-constructed tent he was sitting under. Fear masked as guardianship was rushing through him. It could easily be Skillen, Nash, or Rivers coming for them. This time the trio would not bother to take them back to Headquarters to kill them. Ron would not let them have the chance to even lay eyes on Hermione.

The chill in the air assaulted him as soon as he stuck his head out into the open. Stumbling, Ron narrowed his eyes. His fingers were shaking around his wand. There was a figure not too far off in the distance standing by a grove of trees. He couldn't make out the face, but the build was correct for his long-ago friend. Wind blasted against his face and through his hair, making him stumble. Was that man standing with purpose, power? Or with amiability?

"Ron?" the voice asked loudly. The figure took a few steps toward Ron and he raised his wand. _Lumos_ was on his lips. His mind was pouring over several other spells. "It's me."

"Prove it," Ron challenged uneasily. It sounded like his old friend, but he had learned that no one was to be trusted. The man – he had decided it was a man by the person's broad shoulders and cropped hair – walked with a small bounce in his gait. It was almost amusing to watch him shuffle slowly up the path. It could very well be Harry.

"What are you doing with that out?" Harry bit seriously, upon coming closer. Ron was half crouched and pointing that blasted wand straight at his chest. His hesitant smile was replaced with a grimace as he leaped forward. His loping sidle became a quick, sharp step and he easily snatched the wood out of Ron's grasp. "Do you know what kind of trouble you could get into out here using magic? Do you even know where you are right now? Practically at the Shop's doorstep, you git! Please don't tell me you've been using it."

"Don't talk to me like that," Ron griped sourly, quickly plucking his wand out of Harry's calloused hand. It was Harry, after all. Though he stood a head shorter and a few inches thicker, it was still the rumpled, fierce man Ron knew very well. Right down to the scratched, rounded glasses.

Harry wanted to break a smile, but his need to hear the answer to his previous question overrode it. It had been more than a half year since he had spent the night in Ron's company. There was so much to cover, but a simple, "Did you?" would have to suffice. "Did you?" he snapped again.

"Of course not!" Ron hissed again, the cold biting at his lips. "D'you think I'm daft?"

Relieved, Harry let his smile come naturally. He got knocked on the shoulder roughly, but it was nice know that this whole thing was real. He had actually stumbled upon Ron's makeshift campsite – he had not dreamed it. The footprints in the snow hundreds of miles back had lead him to his friends after all. He stumbled backwards, but forced himself forward and shook Ron's hand vigorously.

"Course not, mate," Harry replied genially.

Ron rolled his eyes, trying not to convey the extent of his relief that it was not a killer coming for his life. The sad part was that his thought was not all that fanatical. Harry could understand that. "Come inside," he invited, turning around quickly. "It's fucking cold out here."

"Agreed," Harry almost chirped. He realized how chipper he sounded and cleared his throat to make his voice sound deeper –as gruff as Ron's was. His attempts were becoming comical. Back at Grimmauld Place, he had barely spoken to his two true friends. They had understood that he needed time with Ginny, but it didn't erase the smudge of guilt from his mind. He was so lucky to have found them again. He followed Ron under the tarp and nearly stumbled over Hermione.

"Careful!" Ron chided, crouching next to her. His hand rested on her side, feeling her rhythmic breathing. She slept on.

"Sorry," Harry whispered back, his hands rising in front of him. Ron was more… territorial than before. It surprised him, but also warmed him some. He took a seat next to Hermione and touched her shoulder lightly. He looked up at Ron. He was wearing a grimace.

"Did Viktor send you?" his voice was clear through the cold air. It hit Harry in a sharp, authoritative sense, accusing him of some crime he knew nothing about.

"No," Harry replied quickly, but thought better of it. "Well, uh, actually… technically, I guess, you could say he uh-"

"He did?" Ron interrupted, the lines on his forehead deepening. His eyebrows knit together until there was no white patch of skin visible between them. His hands were shaking and now there were other reasons besides the cold for their trembling. They weren't supposed to be found – not by _anyone_ – and that included Harry. If Viktor already knew the couple had snuck away in the dead of night, then news would be everywhere. It could get to The Shop. They could be walking into a trap.

Harry shook his head. His lips tightened into a line as his frustration grew. "No, Ron," he began. Hot breath came from his mouth and created a white cloud between them and it was broken apart by his next words. "Viktor wanted me to find Seamus. I'm out here to look for him, not you. I thought you two were supposed to be in hiding still, anyway."

With that, Ron let his knees give and he fell back. He sighed and tugged at his hair, biting his lip. Harry watched him a small amount of amazement. "You _are_ supposed to be in hiding, aren't you?" he asked incredulously. "This obviously isn't the place you've been living. What's going on?"

"We left," Ron groaned, his body stretching and relaxing. Viktor did not know and that was enough good news to let him fall asleep tonight. It was good enough to keep him from thinking of the ache in his bones. It was good enough to keep the growling of his stomach out of his ears. He and Hermione were safe for another day.

"When?" Harry demanded. It was his turn to become suspicious, paranoid.

"A week ago?" Ron guessed in that same, tired voice. He moved closer to Hermione so that he could smooth her hair absentmindedly. He pretended to not to notice Harry's eyes on his hand. "I can't remember. We were in Spain – on the coast somewhere."

"Well," Harry snorted, "Why'd you leave?" His grimace was returning and he did not like where this was going. "Viktor put you there for a reason, mate."

"I'm sick of that bullshit," Ron returned in a snap. "I know what you're going to say next – that he just wants to 'keep us safe.' I know that and so does Hermione and we both can't stand it anymore. There's a line between safety and complete ignorance." He saw the doubt on Harry's eyes and added, "You would have done the same thing. Don't say any different, because all three of us have some sort of complex that pushes us to do this sort of stuff. Viktor had good intentions, but doing _anything_ is better than sitting around and pretending to forget about Seamus. He's a damned good man and we're not going to let him die without fighting for him. That's not right."

Harry stayed silent for a moment, swaying with Ron's words. His head ducked between his legs and his hands tucked themselves in his hair. "What am I supposed to say, now?" he asked offhandedly. "I guess you're right for once. It has been a long time." Why did Ron have to be so foolish, so stubborn? Why did they share the same qualities? It made it hard not lecture, preach at him. Doing so would just be labeling himself a hypocrite. Still, _why?_ Why had he done something so… stupid?

"It has," Ron agreed. He felt as though he had passed some sort of challenge, like something bad had just brushed him over.

"But what about her?" the question burst out of Harry's mouth violently. He hadn't meant to say it so loud and felt embarrassed with himself. "You can't tell me she volunteered herself for this kind of thing." His mouth hung open, unable to exercise the control to close it. He was beginning to become angry with Ron, now that he had awkwardly turned the subject so tender. "She couldn't have possibly wanted to come back here. She knows where you're taking her, right? Please tell me she does."

"Of course she does!" Ron practically roared. He regretted it slightly as Hermione's head lolled on the ground. He narrowed his eyes in the dark and drew himself to Harry. "Don't try to blame this all on me. I wanted her to stay behind – I flat out refused to take her at first." He shook his head and tried to stay calm, because there was no way his case would be made if he erupted again. His anger was like a monster. That skeptical look on Harry's face only fueled its rage. "Harry," he gasped, "I couldn't leave her there alone. I need her. I know it was selfish to let her follow, but I couldn't stop her. She wanted to come and she knows what's out here and so I let her."

Harry held a sour look, but he listened. He was lost when it came to his friends' love lives. There was such a long gap that it was hard to make assumptions. Could Ron really feel this way about his ex? The same one he swore to hate? It made his head hurt and eventually, Harry stopped his inane questioning. It was something he would never fully understand, anyway. The thing between Ron and Hermione – no matter how fragile or weird – was something beautifully inexplicable.

Harry drew in a great breath and that seemed to empty his mind some. Better to focus on the present, he figured. "Is she doing alright?" His eyes darted to Hermione and the coldness seemed to come back. She was real, tangible, and mostly importantly – breakable. He feared for her.

"Well enough," Ron shrugged, grimacing. It was hard for him to sum up their journey, because it was so long and winding. It was difficult to say one way or another if she was 'fine.' She was walking, but she was also wheezing. She was speaking, but of nothing good. She dreamed, but they weren't of pleasant things. "Limps, but that's about it. Whines a bit. Tells me what I'm doing wrong. Catches her step on the back of my feet and then blames me for not walking fast enough. Asks me when we're going to stop next ten minutes after we just sat. Things like that."

"Well," Harry grinned, "that's Hermione." The news was somewhat comforting. There was some quantity of original personality left in her body, reminiscent of their school years. He wished that they were all like that – still unchanged, still confident.

"Yeah," Ron agreed hastily, not wanting him to note the bad things. "But she's been a fighter – amazingly hardheaded."

"She's been around you. Of course she has." Harry settled down into the cramped spot Ron had made for him. The ground was solid beneath him and the air was chilled around him and the sense of unity – of friendship – pervaded him. He felt relaxed and tired, but not entirely in the bad way. He would accept what he could of Ron's shaky explanation and sleep with a quiet mind tonight. He breathed in and out and let his eyes shut.

"Of course I have."

It was a soft echo of a voice and neither man believed it was actually spoken. Ron imagined it was just his mind whispering it to him from the blackness of the space between reality and caprice. Hermione's voice often visited him there, telling him sweet and tender things. Harry thought it was the wind accented through the pines. Hermione smiled with the wisps of the words evaporating in her mouth.

--

"Get me Ginny Weasley," Viktor growled. "Immediately."

Within ten minutes of the order, a slim, redheaded woman was sitting stiffly in the chair opposite his desk. Her eyes were wide, but guarded. Her mouth was a thin, white line. Her clothes were rumpled and she looked very tense. Her shoulders were thrown out defiantly, as if to show Krum that was wasn't afraid of him, no matter what tone of voice he used. She waited, watching him without blinking.

"This is not good news," he began, throwing out his robes before taking a seat. Viktor folded his hands atop the desk and glared at her. If it had been any other day, he would have offered her something to drink or a seat closer to the fire or made small talk about the upcoming holidays. However, 

he was not in the mood to do any of those things. He barely wanted to speak to Ginny, but found that this was impossible. He always notified the kin of missing persons in, well, person.

Truth was, there hadn't been any pleasant news from the Order in days. In fact, things had turned towards catastrophic in the last several hours. That afternoon he had received the news that Granger and Weasley had vanished from their Site and had not been seen for days. Furiously, he had stormed down to the men in charge of that sort of thing and demanded to know if their heads had been up their asses during that period of time. He had gotten a shaky apology and then was informed that Gus 'wandered a lot' and it 'wasn't uncommon for no chatter' to be picked up for days at a time.

Viktor had sent squads out to scour the surrounding areas, but he had collected nothing but 'all clear's. He felt like throttling each and every incompetent peon that stood next to him, shaking their flimsy heads and blinking their blank, bulbous eyes. It wasn't like him to be unkind, but goddamnit this shit that Ron was pulling was enough to make him _Avada Kedavra_ that man on the spot. Who the hell was Ron Weasley to take matters into his own fucking hands? Who gave him the right to completely disregard Head orders? To make Viktor look inept? To put another life in jeopardy to go on a tryst to find Seamus? All kinds of things had been ripped and torn and smashed while Viktor tried to work out the answers.

Even now, he was wasting time with Ginny. She had no clue where her moron brother had gone trotting off to and if she did, he would probably be one of the last to know.

"Alright," Ginny replied firmly. "Get on with it, then." She knew the instant she had been called on that it was not going to be good news. Her brother was not coming home and Seamus had not been found. She could not begin to imagine what dismay she could be facing in Viktor's office now. Her hands held each other tightly.

"Your brother and Granger have decided to take this situation into their own hands, it seems." Viktor had to clear his throat afterwards to resist the urge to shout. He could keep his anger under control for a few minutes. He would save it for much more useful things.

The color drained from Ginny's face, making the freckles stand out like little flecks of ink against parchment. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, her nostrils flaring and the edges of her eyes burning. There was some invisible thing – anticipation, maybe fear – settling on her chest.

"I mean," Viktor snapped, "that _your brother_," he spat the words, "ran off. Not only that, but he's on his own little expedition to find Seamus. Not only _that_, but he dragged Hermione along with him. They've been gone for quite a while now and we have no idea where they are." His teeth were clenched now, hot rage searing through his veins. It was impossible to stay cool when the god damn awful news was so fresh and unsullied. He could kill Ron.

"_What_?" Ginny shrieked, rising from her seat. She acted on impulse. "What did you say?" There was a brief second where there was no ground beneath her feet and no vision in her eyes. It was like a black hole, but when veracity returned, it was sharper than ever. All of her color returned in splotches 

across her face and neck. Her blood was hot and thrumming quickly. She could see every line in Viktor's brow and each wrinkle in his clothes. She even saw the glint of seat forming on his brow. "How the fuck could you let them do that? And not a clue to them now?" she screamed, gripping the edge of his desk with white knuckles. "How _could you_? How dare you! We all trusted you with their safety and you allow them to just wander off? How does this happen, Viktor, honestly? Which moron here-"

"Stop it!" Viktor roared, throwing back his own seat. It clattered behind him precariously close to the fire, but it didn't matter now. He stood half a foot above Ginny, but it didn't seem like enough. There was enough ire radiating from her that it was sure to make a good match. "You _shut up_ and listen to me!" His thick fingers pointed at her face. His chest felt like exploding. He had been blamed for enough today – there was no reason for him to take this from a woman who had no clue what was going on.

"Tell me what the hell you were thinking, Viktor!" Ginny howled, unrelenting. Viktor did not scare her, not when it came to her family. "How could you? You're the only one who knew where they were and you lost them! It's not easy to misplace two people, Viktor! You really have to try. "

"I didn't let him go, Ginny!" Viktor yelled over her, cocking his eyebrow up. "Ron took Hermione and they snuck out during the night. He let Gus go and left us a tiny fucking note saying that everything is okay and they're on a goddamned quest to find Finnigan! It's not entirely my fault!"

"That doesn't matter!" Ginny screamed in reply. She pounded her fists on the desk and she felt fire in the pit of her stomach. "You let them slip away and now their gone! Maybe for good! I may never see them again and it's _your_ fault."

"That is completely untrue," he barked, feeling heat on the back of his neck. "We did everything we could to keep them safe. Ron is an idiot – he always has been – and there is no one that can change that, obviously!"

"Fuck you," Ginny spat, her arms going rigid.

"Fuck your brother!" Viktor returned.

"Bastard," she spat, pointing one shaking finger at his chest. "I hated this whole thing from the start. You took away Ron and Hermione and you let Seamus get taken away, too. Who knows what's going to happen now, thanks to how utterly useless you seem to be!"

Viktor grabbed her wrist and held it very tightly with his fist. He felt the bones shift in his grasp and wanted to snap all of them. He couldn't take it anymore. He had nothing left to give Ginny and all she wanted was more. He was livid and irate and heated and exhausted and overworked and she might have to pay the consequences. "_Shut up_," he snarled in a voice so deep and menacing that Ginny turned to stone.

There were so many things that wanted to roll off her tongue, but they had all died and been forgotten when Viktor's voice entered her ears. He was dangerous and now, standing completely still, 

she was fully aware of that fact. She did not breathe. She did not blink. She did not feel the ache in her hand. She stared into his wild eyes and waited.

"I am going to finish telling you what I brought you here for," the low rumble of his voice was like thunder, "and then you are going to get the fuck out of my office. You aren't going to say another fucking word."

Still, Ginny did not move.

"I sent Potter to scout for the Shop a few weeks ago, as you know. I'm trying to alert him of the situation and when I do, he is going to make finding Weasley and Granger his number one priority." The anger was dissipating, but at such a fraction that Viktor could not feel the effect. He held on tight to Ginny, as if losing his grip would mean losing control. All he had to do was finish these brief sentences and then he would be alone. That was all he needed. "Once that is done, I am going to rally every single Agent we have to find Seamus and then we as the Order are going to put an end to the Shop. This is it. _Finally_."

**A/N: **I hope you liked it! Have a great weekend, everyone!

Please leave me a review - tell me how you liked it or things I could change or questions. I know I've caught several errors thanks to comments.

Katie


	28. A Beautiful Mess

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone, again. College is really, really hard. Like, way harder than I thought it would ever be. I miss my family and my friends and being able to lounge around my house for most of the day. I am running myself ragged here, between classes and clubs and work study and homework. I really apologize for the constant waits - I know I've lost a lot of readers because I can't find the time to update. I can't even find the time to write! I need to work on this schedule of mine. :( I'm sorry, really, I am. Luckily, this is Begining of the End. There's no need to wait for too much longer. I WILL FINISH THIS STORY. That is a promise. It will just take longer than previously thought.

Thank you to everyone who left comments and reviewed. It means so much to me. Thank you, thank you!

* * *

There was a tangible sort of tension hanging thick in the fog that morning. Ginny squinted through the grey mist and hugged her robes snug around her body. The cold was vicious and unrelenting as it wandered from person to person in the mass huddle the team had created some hours before. Coffee had been passed out while inspections were being completed. Now, the empty cups were held in stiff hands for any last bits of warmth they could offer. Ginny stepped on a discarded mug as she crossed the field slowly, picking her way through various faces she couldn't recognize. She wasn't familiar with any of the standard protocol troops took in their preparations for battle – she didn't know it would be this boring. Prep was long and drawn out and involved a lot of shuffling feet and mumbled gripes. She bypassed a long line of wizards with their wands at the ready, practicing for their examination. Ginny offered them a tight, terrified smile.

This was all foreign, Ginny realized as she tried to shake the snow from her standard issue boots. Her formal training had been through a crash-course, taught by several Officials from sunrise to sunset. It had taken a full week of torture to pass. She had not complained, though, for Viktor always seemed to be watching her in those days. They weren't on the best speaking terms, but he had allowed her to come with the reserve with the promise of staying in the very back. He had pushed her into a course and handed her Standard Wear and hadn't spoken to her since.

Now, Ginny was searching for Viktor. There was a weight in her heart that she wished was gone, for she didn't actually want to face him now. Fear seemed to be climbing its way up her legs, its claws scratching for her heart, its fierce eyes on her soul. Did she really have the competency to stand next to these weathered and worn soldiers? They had seen battle and blood, but then again, hadn't she? Ginny had withstood Voldemort – the master – and now it was time to eradicate the copies. Her hands were shaking. It had been a while.

"Cold already?" Viktor's soft voice growled into her ear. He had dipped behind her, a tight smirk on his thin lips. It became more of a grimace as the seconds ticked by. There was a flash in Ginny's eyes – they always saw a challenge – and he watched as she turned quickly to face him.

"No," her tone was firm. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and scowled. The wind stole her answer from her mouth and sent it screaming down the lines. A few heads turned questioningly, but turned back when they saw it involved Viktor Krum.

Viktor regretted the jab. He wanted things to remain serious – he wanted to offer Ginny a second chance, give her time to turn back and stay with her family – and now he had effectively mutilated his tone. His sincerity would fall on scrutinizing ears. He sighed and watched the white snake billow into the air and blend with the fog. He wondered if there really was any mist today, or if it was just the heaves of a thousand tired soldiers. There was an unrest – a sadness – that permeated him.

"Fine," his voice was clipped, overly professional. Viktor pretended to survey the landscape, work his way over the grizzled faces in the crowd, to nod at those who were brave enough to meet his gaze. "Are you ready, then? Got your gear? Went through prelim?" He sniffed.



"'Of course," Ginny almost smiled. It was a defense mechanism – it would throw Viktor off the fact she was scared. She sniffed, too, to show her nonchalance. "Just waiting for you, chief."

Viktor laughed aloud and more heads turned. This time, their eyes stayed. They were nervous, doubtful – what was so special about Ginny Weasley? Why had Krum chosen to stand next to her and make jokes while the rest of them were preparing for battle? This was not the time for amusements – not the time to entertain pretty women.

"Of course," Viktor echoed, his vision lost in the blurred ranks that seemed to stretch on to the horizon. The task at hand was enormous and it was just hitting him. It happened that way – plans never seemed true until the first few steps on the field. The ground beneath his feet was proof that action was at hand. Change was coming, screaming along in the wind. Viktor hoped the Shop could hear their ferocity and shiver like the cowards they were. He wondered how many would be killed that day, how many losses he would suffer in return. The number would never be small enough. He wondered how many faces wouldn't be standing in the Coffee Line the next morning. It made his heart ache.

"Viktor?" Ginny asked after a few seconds of silence. She felt uncomfortable – she realized that she was being unintentionally ignored.

"Chief?" a foreign voice snapped. A tall man sprung out from a crowd and thrust his way past Ginny without an apology. His task was more important than her. There was a small envelope in his long, blue fingers. "Chief! We need to speak to you in the tent."

"What?" Viktor asked, finally brought back to the moment. He blinked and narrowed his vision on this new man. He was familiar and he was carrying something that already interested him. Envelopes meant news, meant… something.

"Follow me," Viktor was instructed. The man was already weaving his way through the ranks. Only the bobbing of his cropped hair kept Viktor from losing him.

"Come on, then," he growled, grabbing Ginny's lapels. She was dragged for the first few feet, before tearing Viktor's grasp from her clothes. She glowered at the back of his head, but Viktor did not notice. She practically had to run to keep up, but wouldn't let herself lag for anything. Maybe that letter was for her, too.

The trio came upon a small, black tent set up on the perimeter of the protected grounds. Inside, it was much larger. Offices were crammed into every available space – letters scattered the air above them – and the Man with the Envelope seemed to know exactly where to go. He drew back a curtain and led Ginny and Viktor into a tiny room with a table and chairs. The duo seated themselves, hearts pounding, and stared expectantly at their messenger.

The Man with the Envelope set his gift on the middle of the table and quietly swept out of the room. No one came in to speak to them. Ginny sat motionless, staring at the crumpled parchment, while Viktor impatiently moved about his chair to survey the room and peak beyond the heavy red cloth. Minutes passed and Viktor's annoyance grew.



"Well," he snapped, "if no one is to tell us what's going on, I'm going to open the damn thing myself!" With that, Viktor reached across the table and snatched up the envelope. Ginny winced at the brief tearing noise and waited silently as Viktor scanned the message.

It seemed to be an eternity. Her bones were stiff from the cold and grateful for the new warmth, but her neck began to sweat under her wool scarf. Viktor probably could handle this on his own – it had probably been an act of courtesy to bring her along. Ginny blushed, thinking of those cynical faces that were awaiting her outside the tent. They would scoff at her as she walked past to stand in the back and observe, while they fought. They had every right to, Ginny thought. The urge to stand and leave was pressing and irresistible.

Viktor's voice stopped her for a second time that day. "They're in Ipatovo."

"Ron and Hermione?" Ginny whispered, her eyes trained tightly on his grim face. She could not breathe. Her coat was strangling her, twisting her insides and turning them cold again. "Is it from them? What happened?" She dug her fingernails tight into her nails to release some of the pressure that was so heavy on her shoulders.

"It's from Harry," Viktor replied in an assured voice. He returned Ginny's gaze with confidence – almost a smile. "He's with them. They've united and they're camping outside Ipatovo. They're all safe."

Ginny leapt from her chair without really meaning to, shrieking. Her hands were on Viktor's shoulders for support, expressing her unrelenting joy. "You're joking!" she practically shouted, searching his face seriously for clues of his farce. She could not find any and her heart began leaping beneath her hot skin. The trickles of sweat rolling down her back were forgotten. Her fingers were shaking with anticipation.

"It's true," Viktor answered, obviously happy with her reaction. The grip on his chest loosened. Finally, he was able to tell someone good news. It had been months. He slumped back in his chair, forgetting his chiefly duties for a few moments. "They're all together. Just like Before."

Ginny covered her face, leaving her mouth open to taste the calluses on her palms. Harry was safe. Her brother had not led himself and Hermione to Certain Death. Viktor was wrong – Ron could be intelligent when the situation called for it. She let her hands draw the skin around her chin down. Her mouth slumped with the motion, stretching it out to speak again. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes." Viktor offered her the brief letter.

Ginny snatched it out of his hands greedily and let her eyes ravage the page.

_Came across G and W in the forest 40 kilos outside Ipatovo. They seem to be in good health. Will stay with them for duration. Luck._

_P_

Finally, Ginny felt the strength that would lead her to stand in the back of the regiments. Her family was alive and that was all she needed.

"It's time to go, now."

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**A/N: **Blah. I have nothing to say tonight. I really hoped you liked it. It's all preparation now, the action will come in the next chapter. Expect it to be longer and overall better-written. I felt so guilty for not updating for weeks. I had to get this out to you all.

Please leave comments and reviews and suggestions and questions! I love to read them.

Katie


	29. Not Dark Yet

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone! I am FINALLY BACK to writing this!! College is hard. That is something I did not expect when I signed for this. Well, not so much hard as time-consuming. I guess this story really pays the price for stupid college. I truly am sorry for the wait - I had to wait until our Fall Break for a real chance to sit down and knock out some chapters. I went home and stayed up (really) late for a couple nights just figuring out where this was heading and how I should go about writing it. I think I had schedule now, but you know me...

Anyway, thank you to everyone who left comments. I apologize for the long wait and for the shortness of the last chapter... I admit, it was sort of a filler text in-between thoughts and chapters and transitioning ideas. I think this chapter is really very solid for my writing style, and the next chapter should be, too. I hope you all like it! There's Seamus. :)

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As his head lay limp against his shoulder, Seamus could still hear the heavy footfalls of boots echoing somewhere beyond his cavernous cell. The promise Ulysses had made rang in his ears. His body tingled, on the edge of numbness brought on by too much pain, and he could no longer keep his neck straight in defiance. It didn't matter now. There was no one to piss off. A whimper escaped his lips and as he breathed in, a faint coppery smell tainted the air. Blood. It was everywhere – the floor, the walls, his clothes, his skin – if he had the ability to be fully conscious, Seamus would have marveled at the amount of the stuff he produced. How he had managed to stay alive for so long.

The cell was dank, but it was cool against his wounds. Scrapes dug inches into his knees and shins and feet. The stone floor kept the bruising down… not that it mattered. Seamus shivered and felt the parts of his body that still existed. The place where his right ear had been stopped hurting a few days ago, but in its place was a hollow thumping noise that occurred at random times. Infection, Seamus thought, would be the ultimate death of him if he managed to somehow miraculously escape.

Outside seemed a very distant thing. There were no windows and no door. There was no fresh air – not even brought in by his captors – and no food. There was nothing except the strangeness of stone and the clanking of his manacles when he bothered to move. Sometimes when Seamus tried to sleep (it did not come easy, no matter how exhausted he became), he would shut his eyes and see a vibrant blue that only the sky could create. The light expanse swirled into a multitude of other bright colors – the freshness of spring grass, the spark of glass in light, the warmness of red pear skin – and it was very romantic. As embarrassing as it could be, waxing poetic in captivity, it was all Seamus had to the outside. He knew in reality the frozen expanse held nothing but blacks and whites, but his life was nowhere near this place that housed him. It was miles away and that is where his mind resided in these times of silence.

However, none of these images could comfort him now. Having just endured another brutal encounter with Ulysses – Hidalgo had better things to do once he figured out that Seamus would give him nothing and sent another man in his place to simply 'play' with their new friend – Seamus could not move, could not think, could barely breathe. He remembered how to pull the air in and slowly let it out and that is what he concentrated on, his head bobbing against the aching flesh of his bare shoulder. They had kept him naked, as if that would humiliate him. It was more an inconvenience that an embarrassment, Seamus reckoned. It's not like it mattered in times like these.

He wanted to cough. The urge was sudden and violent and it took a surprising amount of effort to complete the rudimentary bodily function. The air was stale and gritty in his mouth and throat and gave him trouble from time to time. Blood pooled out of his lips slowly, congealing on his tongue. It was disgusting and Seamus had not spit to take away the sickness. Another whimper followed.

Ulysses had promised to come back. He had said it in a jovial sort of way, tapping the rocks in the wall with a long finger. It was his way of saying goodbye. He did not say when, but it was always soon. Long enough for Seamus to regain the strength to hold his head up and to grip the chains that bound him, but short enough that he could only whisper indignities and loll around while his torture was being pressed upon his body. It was system designed to keep him alive enough to wish he was dead. Seamus pretended it wasn't working, but the notion was slowly worming its way into his brain.

Suicide was something he considered at one point. Both of his arms had been broken and this time his captor had not bothered to fix them before leaving. As pain thudded fresh through his shoulders – they were still kept up, as the shackles on his wrists started from a point well above his head – the familiar blackness wove around his vision and stole it from him, but would not take his mind or dull his pain as it often did. Seamus was fully aware of every inch of injured skin crawling across his bones. Every burn seared, every cut screamed, every bruise grew and vomit would not come. His neck felt broken, too. Small, rare tears burned down his brown-crusted skin and dried quickly on his bare chest. He could not organize his thoughts enough to picture home, Ginny, or the Order. The notion of rescue was the furthest thing from him, something he could not remember. Hope was nothing. Seamus could not help it – he wanted to die. He would have committed suicide in that moment if he had the means of doing so.

Yet… here Seamus was, still alive. Ulysses had cut his feet so deeply Seamus could not feel his toes. His pinky toes were gone – as was his largest, sent as a gift - and he had a feeling that the rest were going to follow in the next few days. His gaze drifted loftily in the direction of his ankles and found the sight repulsive. How would he stand to leave this place when the time came? Is it really true that his balance came from the things taken from him? He had never really bothered to think about it before, because there had never been a reason. At least he was still thinking he would get out over here someday.

And in the next second, Seamus thought of how repulsive he must look now. His ear was gone, as well as some of his toes and a large chunk of his nose. His fingernails could grow back eventually, but for now they were crusted nubs on the tips of his digits. He could barely feel his hands anymore – no telling what color they were. The sides of his feet were black and blue trailed like rivers up the sides of his bare legs. Green plumes spotted his knees, tinged with brown crud. They were like tiny, secret flowers blooming beneath his skin. They grew larger up his thighs, until the centers turned bright yellow. At least something had life within him, thriving in the divots of his hips and the dip of his bellybutton. There were red lines in no particular order scrawled in the pallid flesh, like a map. This mash up of colors painted his body horrifically and Seamus knew they would never really vanish.

Who would want him in this broken state? Certainly not Ginny, Seamus thought morosely. Ginny didn't want him in the first place. She might have at one point, but she had chosen long ago. His appearance now would only reaffirm the correctness in her decision. Many times Seamus had tried to remember the feeling of her lips pressing against his, but each time the vividness weathered a bit more than the last. He thought more and more of her as the days passed, but nothing was clear anymore. Seamus could make out the lines of her face – the general contour of her cheekbones and sleekness of her lips – but he couldn't tell green eyes from brown freckles. Her face became mud, smeared and stained. Seamus tried remembering the faces of others – his friends, coworkers, superiors – and found the same result. He was forgetting.

Could he really let himself forget the faces of those who loved him? Seamus gritted his teeth as best he could – finding that pain often sharpened certain memories – and stirred the image of Ron's scowling face to the forefront of his imagination. It melted quickly away, but still… there was something. Again, Seamus bit his tongue and tried to not to cry aloud. Hermione came to him, sleeping on Ron's bed. He could see her eyelashes fluttering on a rosy cheek and then she vanished. This aggravated him – why couldn't he make these simple pictures last? These people came from his childhood, lasting with him through adulthood. He loved them. Weak rage filled his chest, burning worse than any tangible wound could. Again, Seamus tried gnashing his teeth together to bring about Ginny. Only her general silhouette flitted about coyly before returning to the recesses of his deteriorating mind.

No picture stood for long. He tried remembering the faces of his family, though long gone, and saw only a distant family portrait they had taken when he was twelve. His father stood next to his gawky teenage frame. Both of their hands rested firmly on his mother's shoulders as she sat delicately in front. They withered behind his lids, just as they had done in real life. His adolescence flickered in a disarray of sights. Dean Thomas, the Weasley twins, the freedom of the Quidditch pitch. His parents lying on the floor of their bedroom with wide, unseeing eyes, his acceptance letter to the Order, the pain of his first tattoo, the firmness of Viktor's handshake – all of these things were fleeting.

Seamus was just too weak. He swung his arms back and forth, clashing the chains against each other in a mourning song. As the movement rocked him like a soft tide, he felt strength in his anguish and rage. His despair morphed into something Seamus had never experienced before. A tangible thing grew in the pit of his stomach, growing with each frustration that his mind whirled through. His rage grew stronger, fresher, and as raw as the skin around his iron cuffs. This thing grew heavier in him and burned like fire. Seamus' jaw clenched as stiffness overtook him. With one last thrust of his body, Seamus arched his back involuntarily and let forth a howl that shook the very walls that surrounded him. The force of his magic was loud, vengeful, and unrelenting. Light spewed from his mouth and overtook the whole room, even as the stone began to morph and vanish in front of him.

Ulysses stepped forth at the exact moment the light hit its peak. It engulfed his body and tore it apart savagely. Limbs lay scattered across the damp scene. What was left of his mouth was still open, shocked. Seamus felt himself rise and then lost all concept of self. The shackles burst into shards just before the walls did the exact thing. This unnamed force was silent, even when the rocks tumbled to the ground, revealing a long corridor. It cradled Seamus' body as he dropped towards the floor. There he lay for several minutes as the brilliance that had come from him shrunk until its strength was ultraviolet. Then, it vanished and left Seamus to his own devices.

Even as Seamus woke, he knew no name for what had just happened. He felt lighter than before – like something had abandoned him – as he tried to pull himself into a sitting position. Rubble was everywhere, dusted with a coating of gleaming red blood. Seamus grimaced at the sight of a hand lying next to him and hunched his shoulders against the carnage. He was sickened with himself, but the wonder trounced all. His eyes drifted to the hallway that was hidden before. It was as dark as the cell, but there were shadows cast over the exposed wall. That meant light. Whether it was artificial or natural, it was light and that meant only progress.

Had Seamus just wished his escape into existence? He picked his way carefully over rock and rubble on his hands and knees towards this new hope. Seamus could barely mull over the event, as it had felt stupendous and strangely natural. Perhaps it was a certain protection that magic offered in times like these. Maybe he was special. Maybe there was something wrong with him – a mutation or imperfection that seemed to plague superheroes in his boyhood comics. Whatever it was, Seamus was alive.

The corridor was paved with smooth concrete. It slid easily under Seamus' palms and did not bother his knees much. Crawling felt childlike – a submission to his own weakness – but there was no other way about it. His legs refused to function. His ankles buckled even as he inched his way to supposed freedom. Spots dotted his vision as he squinted. His elbows buckled now, too. His body – once propelled by adrenaline and magic – was quickly shutting down. Could have using that animalistic force result in his death soon after? Was that the price he would have to pay to die a free man? Perhaps.

Seamus took on a machine-like mindset, performing a set of functions mechanically, for that was all he was capable of now. Right. Left. Break. Spit. Breathe. Repeat. Continue. Finish. Win. That was the ultimate goal – no matter how vague or intangible it was – Seamus was going to fight and win. Perhaps it was the Auror training, or maybe it was some innate stubbornness, but he would not stop. Neither would the concrete floor. It was never-ending in its smoothness and dull color. Seamus could barely lift his neck to squint into the corridor and instead let it rock with the movement of his weary shoulders.

And then, something changed. His curled knuckles scraped against something rough. He jerked back as best he could, fearing it was the tread of a boot, and took on a defiant look. It was brick. There was a brick staircase next to the end of the corridor, leading up a long ways and covered with a wooden door. Through the splints in the wood, tiny specks of grey light shone through and left pinpricks of color on the floor and all over Seamus. He lifted his hand as best he could to shield himself from the vibrant beams – being held so long in blackness had taken its toll on his eyes.

Thirty steps from freedom. Wetness appeared on the corners of his dirt-lined lids. With a grunt, Seamus got himself on all fours again. Tottering, he heaved his elbow from the dirt and gasped when his tender skin met the rough exterior of brick. Seamus had to bite his tongue to keep from crying aloud when he rested his weight on that elbow to bring the other to meet it. This is the price, he thought when he tasted the blood swimming around his teeth, and he would gladly pay it.

**A/N: **Did you like it? I really, sincerely hope that you did!! I'm actually very proud of myself - I hope you are, too. :) Have an enjoyable rest-of-the-week, everyone!

Oh, and please feel free to leave comments, questions, and suggestions!! I read every one of them, though I may not respond to all of them. I have this time-management problem that some of you may have noticed. OH! And who is super excited for the Twilight movie?? I am. :) Anyway, please leave a review! Have a great weekend, too! :)

Katie


	30. Losing Keys

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP! :)

**A/N: **Hello everyone! I am updating in a surprisingly short amount of time! It is shocking even to myself, having completed this chapter in the margins of my Calculus notebook and on the back of napkins in the cafeteria. :) I am feeling quite proud of myself - becoming quite a young adult, no? Hahaha. Anyway, I hope everyone who got one had an enjoyed Fall Break. Also, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :) Gaah, I'm so excited to finish the end!! The outline that I finished earlier needs some major work, but that shouldn't be a problem... hopefully :)

Read on!!

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"What is that?"

Her voice was surprisingly melodic as it rang out through the stark air. It was the first interuption the landscape had experienced in hours. The rustling of clothing continued the disturbance as she turned to listen to her own echo. It was unsettling to be so quiet for so long – like they were waiting for something terrible to happen.

Hermione waited a few moments for her voice to travel the white distance between her and the boys. She saw neither of them at the present and presumed she had been left behind. She could not bear to leave the sight alone in an effort to find them, and instead turned back to her target. She moved tree branches out of the way and peered out through heavy lids to find her subject once more.

She supposed it to be a man, but her eyes were slack from overuse. Sleep was a precious commodity that seemed quite rare in the night. Instead, she watched – shadows, birds, branches moving in the wind. But, this was no darkened silhouette against the canvas of a tent. Hermione was sure this was a human being, crawling slowly across wintry dunes. The posture, the pose, the build… all these things supported her theory.

When Hermione came to this conclusion, her mind swam with possibilities. It could be someone she knew – an agent ,a master – or it could be Seamus. The latter was reaching, and she realized that with a heavy heart. It was too easy, Seamus just appearing after only two days of his rescuer's arrival. It simply could not be. Yet, still, Hermione's heart leapt quite painfully and she wished with all her body that it could be him.

There was a scrambling in the bushes further off that made her jump. Ron came lumbering out of the bleak forest, a solemn look on his unshaven face. His hair was long now – past his neck and curling around his red ears. He looked like a wearier, stretched version of his seventeen-year-old self. Hermione caught her thoughts drifting as he came slower, momentarily lost in the past. This was like their final journey against Voldemort, she figured. Before Ron left. She was just as glad to see him now as she had been the day he'd returned to their tentflap.

Squatting beside Hermione, Ron pushed his arm against hers for warmth and comfort. They had no time to discuss themselves since Harry had joined up. They felt awkwardness sneaking back into their conversations, making them unsure of how to act or speak when alone. They settled for silence and it seemed to be working.

Hermione pushed back against his weight."What's the ruckus about?" he kept his voice unnaturally low, as if enough had been done to their quiet solace already. Or was it trepidation? They all feared that at any moment, their words could be heard from the valley into which they looked. Watching, spying, deviating – whatever they wanted to call it – was dangerous. Their cover was in a thick scrub forest that had died with the season, creating an ominous black smudge on the otherwise pristine hills. It was a good spot that overlooked Headquarters. The trio had taken to spying through trees and rocks – a tedious and time-consuming task that yielded little.

"You don't think they'd just let Seamus out for a stroll, d'you?" Ron had bit sarcastically at the mere suggestion of a possible stakeout. "There's nothing we could possibly learn now, staring at a bloody building. It's the dead of winter. No one comes out and no one goes in without being so wrapped up it's impossible to tell who the hell they are!"

It was a strong argument, Harry had conceded, but a foolhardy one at that. Learning the land was an essential step for Aurors – something in their training they could not dispatch. Hermione had stood by Harry's side, signifying her place in the argument. There were things she wanted to watch for as well. Though she knew the layout quite well, she wasn't sure the men fully understood from her stories. She wanted them to be thorough in their examination. No mistakes this time.

Eventually, Ron had begrudgingly acquiesced to Harry's proposal. His blood was still quick and hot within him, aching for confrontation. He wasn't used to waiting, not an impatient man like himself. In his own Auror days, things moved swiftly and it was crouching in bushes for hours on end that he began to appreciate those consistent assignments. Ron always lost the Waiting Game.

Now, Hermione extended her hand to the north, where the site lay dormant underneath her finger. Ron's eyes followed the signal and easily picked out the black body.

"Is that…" he breathed, squinting, "human?"

"I think so," she replied seriously. Her eyes ran over Ron's face, painted in concentration. His lips were pressed thin and drawn. She looked for any sign of agreement, but he was guarded at the present.

It took Ron awhile to reply, weighing out the possibilities in his overworked mind. He shifted in the snow, drawing his knees closer to his body, warming his belly. Much better. He shook his head. "I think so, too."

"What do we do now?" it was question she hated to ask, relinquishing what little authority she claimed to the decision of the group. She was still staring into Ron's large, lined eyes, waiting. "Should we go down there now?"

Again, Ron shook his head, but it had a very different connotation. "Much as I'd like to – I don't suppose it would do us any good."

"But what if that's him?" Hermione's voice sounded clipped, even to her own ears. She felt her muscles tense. Her heart fluttered, turning over the question again and again. Assurance flooded her as she snuck another look below. It did not come from Ron's words, but an instinctual part of her mind. She rationalized it was actually Seamus below, but the reason came with no words for explanation.

Trust. Ron would just have to believe her.

"It has to be," her voice was definitive.

For Hermione's sake, Ron leaned forward and studied the scene. It was a low-lying valley that had no distinguishable features naturally. There was a large house a few feet away from the center of the bowl. It was browned brick with a thick layer of snow decorating its draped, dark windows. There was a path leading from a side door, but from where the couple sat, it ended somewhere behind a snow bank. There was a smaller shed to the left of the front door, but its doors remained locked. Presently, there was a figure – a proposed man – that had wandered slowly from behind the mysterious dune. Ron was about to speak on the matter when the man dropped to his knees, then collapsed face-first onto the planks that constituted the walkway. He did not move again.

"I'll be back," Ron responded, instead. He took Hermione's hand from its place clasped onto his jacket, pressed it to his chapped lips briefly, and then hoisted himself to his feet. Without another word, Ron started in a completely opposite direction from which he came. He had to find Harry, he thought to himself, as his footsteps grew quick with panic.

Hermione leaned over the decaying scrub to get a closer look. She saw a vague outline and was immediately disturbed. From his coloring, this man was not clothed – not at all. Again, her heart leapt painfully in her chest. It was Seamus. This was how the Shop treated their prisoners – she had firsthand experience. Hermione also knew their "storage facility" was not the dilapidated shed, but a bricked place under the cold, unforgiving ground.

Her body was not in a mood to be complacent. Her idea had wormed its way through her blood and was fully prepared to make her act on it. Hermione pulled herself to her feet, clasping the pricked branches of the plant with both red hands. At first, she tripped down the steep incline. The snow was hard packed due to the prolonged wintry conditions, and her boots stuck unexpectedly in their prints. Hermione was launched by the weight of her own body head-first into the ground. Terror gleamed in her eyes, before they tightened shut. Her feet followed soon after her initial crash and Hermione found herself tumbling comically down the hill.

The horrendous ride could not stop quickly enough. Hermione's hands grasped for purchase wildly, as she tried to keep herself from screaming aloud. Her body came to an abrupt halt as her fingers wrapped around an errant tree root left over from the clearing. Her feet hit last, smacking the snow painfully. The boots that kept them from these kinds of dangers had been accidentally discarded in their self-made slots. Wincing, Hermione pulled herself up to her elbows and peered over her stinging cheeks.

The naked man was only twenty feet away, lying face-down in a mound. His head was bald, nondescript. His skin was bluish. However, starting from the base of his skull a ribbon of tattoos fluttered their way down his bloodied back. The long, cursive lines exploded into larger, blacker scenes and tributaries. "FATHER" was scripted officially down his right arm, while "MOTHER" ran down the other.

"Seamus," Hermione whispered, too horrified to truly understand the situation. Scrambling forward on hands and knees, shaking, she threw herself at Seamus' body. It was a sight she had never imagined – never even dreamed of. Her hands landed on his cool flesh, smearing dirt and crusted blood over his back. She began to tremble, shaking as if she were possessed.

"Seamus!" she called again, louder than before. Dear God, this couldn't be happening. Not to him! They couldn't have. Please, God, please. Hermione could not stand the shock, turning him over with great difficulty. Dear Lord, she prayed, let this not be Seamus. Let me see his face and find it strange. She succeeded in her efforts, still clinging to her childish wish. It was not meant to be, the reward of turning him resulted in defeat.

In the motion of resting his head on her lap, Hermione confirmed that it was Seamus. Though his body had lost its tone and weight, though he wore the marks of unfair and foreign battles, though his eyes and cheeks were bloated and ugly – this was Seamus. Tears stung at the sides of her wan eyes. Shock prevented them from falling; only adding to her despair.

"Seamus!" she screamed a third time, rubbing at the tracks of dirt that ran across his calm face, "Answer me!" Hermione shook him with a great force, wanting something – anything at all – to happen. "Please," she pleaded, grasping at his shoulders, "please." Greif overwhelmed her body, making her movements erratic and groggy. She cradled his head in her lap, rocking him as she began to cry.

There were crunching footsteps from somewhere beside her, but Hermione barely noticed. She figured Harry and Ron had followed her and now watched from a safe distance. Her thoughts flew to Ginny, to Dean Thomas, to Viktor. How would she break this awful truth to them? Would neither of the boys come to aid her? Or comfort her? The tentative footsteps drew nearer and stopped only a short distance from her periphery vision.

"Eleanor?" a voice asked, covered in incredulousness.

Hermione whipped her head around at the mention of her old name – her false title. A tall man, dressed in red robes and black scarf stood – seemingly astounded – watching her. His black hair caught errant flakes as he stared, those flakes catching on his pronounced nose and shoulders. He seemed so ordinary.

"John?" was all Hermione managed. Her throat closed up after the name was spoken, fearing what other might bring. Standing next to her was the incarnation of evil. There was nothing she could do, with her thoughts buzzing and vision slurring.

"We've been looking for you," his voice was simplistic and clear as he dictated his intentions. John Rivers' mind overcame its original confusion, becoming calculating once again. Their ploy had worked – that was a surprise in itself. He was going to kill the both of them. Right here at this very moment. His hand darted into his robes and withdrew clutched around his wand.

"John," Hermione again repeated, feeling bile rise in the back of her throat. Her vision narrowed around the edges, framed in blackness. She was plagued by lightheadedness, unable to move. What was she to do? Get to her feet and run? Stand and try to fight? Leave Seamus? There was no energy to do any of those things. She feared death was upon her, felt comprehension slide down her back coolly. Her muscles grew tense, coiled rigidly.

"Say goodbye," he advised, advancing on his prey. It was a game to him, and an extremely easy on this time around. He thought only of the commendation he would receive upon delivery of the two carcasses. Finnigan meant nothing, but Granger was worth her weight in honor. The reward would be great. Already, fleeting images of congratulatory handshakes and admiring smiles filled his mind. He walked towards them carefully, deliberately. She wasn't going to escape this time. As soon as he was close enough to see the naked fear flashing in her eyes, John Rivers raised his arms. Slowly, he licked his lips.

Hermione clung to Seamus, her knuckles turning white with the effort. Her hear leapt and thrummed violently. This was the same man that incarcerated her, cut, burned, and broke her body. He had been completely uninterested in her screams and begs for mercy. He had meant to kill her there in captivity like an animal. And now, now that plan had failed, he had come back. She had brought herself to this place knowing the risks, but determined to ignore them. The warnings of the past echoed in her head, reminding her of the stubborn choices she had made. All of them led her back to the Shop. It held a power over her that Hermione knew could never be described to anyone, no matter how sympathetic.

It was desire that burned through her during their journey – a need to know what had happened to this place. She wanted to know that everything was different. That somehow, despite all the horrific things that had been said and done, her work meant something. She needed to know that the spell the Shop had cast over her those years ago – alluring and filled with the promise of danger – had been broken. Hermione simmered with want of knowledge, an old craving that never stopped picking at her. She was different from these people, the ones that had so readily accepted her as a friend and agent, she was good.

It was the look on John's face that brought terror to her. They were polar opposites. He would never understand the meaning of empathy, of caring, of love. None of them meant a thing. Rivers was bloodthirsty and disturbingly cold. Nothing had changed.

Death.

"Expelliarmus!"

The word was clear as it echoed throughout the quietude of the valley. It was followed by a shock of light. John turned swiftly, having seen Harry and Ron crashing down the hill with their hands waving and mouths open. A wand dropped softly into the snow.

* * *

**A/N: **Did you like it??? I hope so! I desperately do. :) Thank you to all the readers who keep checking on this story. I know it's been quite the long-haul, but I hope my readers find that it's worth it (at least a little). And thank you for all the reviews!! Replying to one review about the last chapter being a bit cheesy.... yes, haha, I agree. I just have quite the thing for Seamus and couldn't control myself. I had originally intended for him to be saved in the cell by Harry, but that, too, seemed like Harry To The Rescue Again. This isn't Harry Potter Scraped His Knees - it has to be more about the under characters. Anyway, to end that tirade... yes, you are correct in calling me out. But wasn't it heroic?? :)

Two things before I go: WHO IS EXCITED ABOUT TWILIGHT??? And, is anyone else competing in National Novel Writing Month? This is my third year trying to write a novel and I am thrilled with it. :) Have a great weekend, everyone!

Katie


	31. No Other Way

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello, everyone! It is finally Thanksgiving Break! I am so excited! Can't you tell! Haha, anyway... here is the latest chapter. It's funny to think that I began this story almost a year ago - it's been that long, waiting for me to sit down at the computer and think of new chapters. A whole year of patience and mishaps and exciting new things. I am very thankful to all my readers, whom without, I would have abandoned this story many months ago. THANK YOU. Thank you for being so wonderful and so dedicated. I appreciate it much more than you will know. :)

The story progresses! Carry on.

* * *

Hermione did not recall much of what happened after seeing the astonished look on John's face. She watched, riveted to the point of stiffness, as his dark eyes widened in horror and his mouth dropped open to reveal yellowed teeth. Soon after, John crashed to his knees and then later on his face. His arms lay complacently at his sides, his wand stranded in another dune of snow. She remembered the soft whump sound his body made as it collided with the earth and how still everything was for a few moments afterward. Then, there was shouting. It was directed mainly at her, but Hermione heard only persistent static. She did not move from her spot beside Seamus. Not even when prodded and pulled to her feet did she think to take back control of her own body. Instead, she let the shock reign in her limbs and resided complacently in her mind's images of John's downfall. It was a suitable thing to do at the time.

She awoke half an hour later with a splitting headache and cold fingers. As she pushed herself up on her elbows, Hermione began to fully register what she had done. Soon after came the consequences that made her cringe. She looked around and knew that she had been placed back in the secrecy of the forest. However, there was no sign of Ron, Harry, Seamus, or John. It was just her on the tiny mat they shared for sleeping. Hermione groaned, but the sound was lost among the withered branches and carried upwards by the wind, never to be heard by human ears.

God, what had she done? Why had she been so… rash? Foolish? Stupid? Hermione could clearly hear Ron's voice ringing in her smarting ears, demanding to know all the reasons she had propelled herself down into the valley alone and without question. She knew there would be no correct answer and that all that she would be able to supply was a meager 'I'm not sure.' All of the assurance that had once filled her spirit was gone, replaced with an aching sense of regret. Surely she had compromised their position….

…But why hadn't they moved, then? She was still on familiar ground and left to rest. With a thrumming heart, Hermione clambered precariously to her feet. Her headache did not dissipate like she hoped, but stayed with her as she wandered out of the hidden clearing and into the depths of the forest. She dared not call out and draw unwanted attention. Fear was encroaching on the periphery of her mind, hurrying her feet along through the scattered maze of sticks and sod. Eventually, as her wandering yielded only frustration and exhaustion, Hermione heard distant voices. They were familiar and she assumed they were her companions. She followed their trail with a renewed vigor and thrust herself through the woods.

Harry and Ron were standing with their backs to her as Hermione reached the edge of the woods. It was dangerous to be here – so far away from the safety the trees offered. They were stiff with their long arms crossed tightly across their chests, mirror images of the other. She would have guessed they wore the same, serious expressions. Tightened lips, flaring nostrils, furrowed brows, and slits for eyes – the visage of vexation. She had known the boys long enough to tell when their stances conveyed agitation in the way shifted from leg to leg impatiently and scratched the back of their heads shortly. They had grown so old in the time she had been away – their shoulders broadened and voices deepened to clarity – but they still remained set in their boyhood ways. It was comforting, even when Ron and Harry weren't in the best moods. They were still fundamentally the same.

Now, as Hermione pushed through the scrub brush that marred the footpath the boys had created, she saw there was another man with them. This body was laying face-up in the snow a ways from their feet. She concluded from their serious, low banter, they were deciding what to do with the corpse. Wait, John was no corpse yet. There were slight trails of smoke rising from his nostrils, proving that though unconscious, John Rivers still lived. Hermione swallowed and then decided to make herself known.

"What are you doing?" her voice was soft from disuse. She pulled her jacket closer to her body as she made her way across the clearing to join the group.

Harry and Ron simultaneously turned to glare at her.

"Go back," Ron's tone was filled authority. It was if she were a child and he her father. His fist was raised, a finger signaling for Hermione to turn right back around. "Now." There was no question, no asking for her to hear him out. It was an order in a voice she had not heard for a while. It made her stop.

"What?" she balked, feeling her sense of belonging fade. "Why?"

"Don't ask questions," Ron barked, unusually stern. Hermione realized that she had probably earned such treatment, but did not expect it to really be carried out. This is why she did not immediately move, but swayed in her spot with an incredulous look on her face. He approached in her in a few long strides, scooped her upper arm in his fist, and began dragging her back to the woods.

"Why?" Hermione repeated, flustered. She could not believe she was being treated this way in front of Harry. She knew that Ron was capable of much worse humiliation – she had experienced that kind of degradation behind closed door. She did not know, however, why he was behaving in such a way while others could see.

"Don't ask questions," Ron repeated gruffly. He once looked over his shoulder and gave a curt nod. It was so quick Hermione did not have time to comprehend what was taking place behind her. She tried to turn and catch a glimpse of Harry's face, but Ron shoved her roughly forward. It was unusual for him to be so physical.

"Was that John?" she asked, just for the sake of gaining information. She knew John's features and build, knew that was certainly the man laying at the boys' feet. She was out of breath now, being hurried along like this.

"Yes," Ron replied with no embellishment.

"What's going to happen?" Hermione was becoming agitated. She was an equal in the trio and granted, she had acted without reason, but she deserved to know John's fate. She tried to stop – grind her feet into the snow – but Ron's pace pulled her from the spot and made her stumble. Hermione tried to wrench her arm from his grasp, but Ron's fingers only tightened. "Ow!" she declared loudly.

This time, Ron did not reply. His silence ran deeper than any words could. Again, Hermione felt unease creep through her body. Her mind began to whirl with possibilities – with grotesque images of John's mangled body lying in a pool of blood – and steeled herself for the reality of that chance. He certainly deserved a worse fate, but she would accept his death without hesitation or shame.

"You're going to kill him," Hermione said aloud, just to make sure the actual words did not harm her. It was satisfying to know that John's death would not hang heavy on her shoulders, like many others did. The declaration was just that – a statement, a fact – rather than a question that awaited a confirmation.

Yet, confirmation came anyway in a skewed manner. Ron's mouth opened and he blinked rapidly, but chose not to say anything yet. Instead, he focused on the pace he kept. Finally, they were at the clearing and he sat them both down on the mat that still lay on the ground. "It doesn't matter," he shook his head. "This shouldn't concern you. It's an Auror's job and Harry's up for it. Don't think any more about it, for all our sakes."

"Alright," Hermione replied gently. Still, her heart pumped unevenly in her chest. It was a sick sort of exhilaration that John's impending doom brought her. She did not want to celebrate his death, but she refused to mourn it. It was strange to know a man was going to be executed a half mile away – a man she had spent years with, talking, eating, and laughing with. A man she had known, a man who had tried to kill her, a man who believed in evil things. His existence was going to be terminated – the world rid of just another bad person – and she could barely make herself care. Hermione was not a violent or particularly vicious person and her nonchalance was worse than anything that brutality might bring.

"That was a very stupid thing you did," Ron began again, in a heartier voice. He leaned forward, his brows still knit together tightly, and stared her in the eye. Perhaps it was a scare tactic, but it did not work on her. "You could have gotten yourself killed. Luckily, no one noticed the incident. Harry covered our tracks, made it look like we were never there."

"Where's Seamus?" Hermione interrupted, without thought to his original sentence. Just the fact John's murder was being replaced with a different subject allowed her enough space to remember the reason for their trip. Her head whipped around, scattering hair across her face, but she was not rewarded with any sight of the man in question.

Ron sighed heavily and let his shoulders sag. "He's away from here. Harry and I set him up a couple yards from this spot. He needs seclusion. He's got the tent and most of the blankets. Hypothermia added to all his injuries just might kill him. We've got to get him out of here. We don't have much time before they discover Rivers missing, anyway."

"But what about the rest of the Shop?" Hermione felt panic hit her bloodstream. They could not stay and fight with Seamus in such a condition, but they could not take him back and leave the Shop to retaliate. Yet, it seemed the boys had decided to do exactly that. "We can't leave, not yet."

"We have to," Ron answered quickly, harshly. He saw emotion flash suddenly in her eyes and took her hand in his. "We have to get Seamus help. I can't do much without my lab or a proper facility. I've done the best I could for the time being, but he won't last without professional care. We'll definitely lose him if we try to fight now." He touched Hermione's frozen face; trace the outline of blush coloring her cheeks. She was watching him with familiar impatience, waiting for another answer to analyze. God, she was so stubborn.

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head furiously, ignoring the pain that exploded like fireworks behind her lids. She moved away from Ron's touch and opened her eyes into a hard, determined glare. He wasn't understand the impact of their decision. She had already devised a makeshift plan in those mere seconds, one that would allow for both things to happen. "We can do this," her voice was infused with passion. "Someone can take Seamus back – I will, if I must – and you and Harry will stay and fight. You're right about John – Rivers, I mean – they'll be looking for him a matter of hours. Now is the perfect time to act! They don't suspect anything now and this window of opportunity is growing smaller as I speak. Once they discover our plot, there will be no chance in winning. You have to trust me about this, Ron."

It was Ron's turn to shake his head with a grim expression. "It's alright in theory," he told her disappointedly, "but it's not plausible right now. You can't run a long distance, let alone carry a full-grown man over your shoulders while doing so. Harry and I can only do so much. I can't risk his life, I won't do it." Ron took Hermione's hand forcibly this time, refusing to let go even when she shot him a devastating look and tried to take it back. "I would give my own," he hissed, "but I can't ask him to do the same."

"He's asked us to do it plenty of times!" Hermione retaliated quietly, spitting the words out into the cold, clear air. Even as the sentence exploded from her lips, she knew she was lying. Harry had never asked them to give their lives – even tried to prevent them from following – but they had acquiesced and wordlessly followed in his pursuit of Voldemort. It had been her personal choice to face danger. Ron was, as impossible as it seemed, right. This time.

Ron only responded with a hard glower. Hermione turned her face away, but did not take the words back. It would have been ineffectual, anyway.

---

And so, it was decided within the hour that the camp would be packed up and they would leave. The topic of apparition was debated heatedly by all three, crowded around Seamus' sleeping body. Hermione smoothed his blankets and covered his neck with them, feeling sickness swim in her stomach. She wondered briefly if she looked this poorly when she had been found a year ago. Then, her attention was forced back to the conversation. Ron and Harry were hissing and spitting like kettles, trying to keep their voices soft, but still harsh. She added her own opinion into the broil of words and eventually, they decided it would be best to start out on foot. They would find a place an acceptable distance from the camp and apparate to the nearest city. It was dangerous, but a chance they would have to take in order to save Seamus.

Ron and Harry then began to debate the topic of how, exactly, they were going to get Seamus to that appropriate location. They wrapped him in a few blankets tightly, creating a cocoon around his damaged body. Harry took his shift first and hoisted Seamus over his shoulders, grunting with the effort. However, Seamus had lost quite a bit of weight during his absence. The challenge of carrying him was gratefully lessened. Hermione gathered the rest of their things and walked close to Ron. Her heart had not stopped thudding since she had woken and the beat was taking its toll. She felt nervous and vulnerable as sweat broke out across her forehead. She stared at the ground as they began their journey, filled with disappointment and fear. There would be a retaliatory act, she was completely sure of it. It was only a question of who they would kill next time.

Ron kept her from worrying to the extent of tears. Occasionally, he would bump her shoulder or let his fingers accidentally slide across the back of her bare hand. Her head would jerk upwards to be rewarded with a tight, secretive smile. She tried to smile back, to forgive him of this grevious mistake he was committing, but it turned into a grimmace each time. It was easy, of course, for him to blow it off as result of her stupendous stubbornness. The touch of her skin was right enough for him. Ron worried more about how she was going to fare getting back home than how she mulled over the Shop. Of course, that obligatory danger rested on his back, but the impertanence of getting Seamus to saftey made him forget. Sure, there was a part of him that was disappointed that the Shop still stood. It had been his mission since the start to bring it down, but seeing Seamus changed all that. It was like seeing Hermione when she first arrived, mangled and gnarled in his bed. He would ensure care for his friend before returning. This was a promise he had made aloud in Harry's presence and the other man had seriously agreed. They would waste no time in returning.

"Stop," Harry commanded after an hour of walking. It was no ordinary suggestion – a pleading to rest, to breathe, to hand Seamus over to a comrade. No, this one word conveyed a thick, hard superiority that made both Ron and Hermione freeze without question. Harry's leadership experience lent him that voice, that complete control of a situation. They stood unmoving in a triangle, Harry staring off into the distance.

Suddenly, Harry's head jerked back and his stern eyes rested heavily on Ron. "Do you see that?" he asked, turning back to his original subject.

Ron craned his neck and noted something on the horizon line. It was just a black line – probably scrub or forest. It was not uncommon for tundra and so he immediately discarded the sight. Instead, he looked for people, animals, actual living threats on their lives. "What is it?" he asked when there was nothing of the sort in his line of vision.

"Out there," Harry replied. He made no gesture, so Ron had to rely on the way his head faced. Again, his eyes were drawn to the line across the horizon – the nothingness that accompanied the area.

"Is that-" Hermione said aloud, having craned her neck, too. She was almost used to being left out of 'important' things, being as that she was not an Auror. Instead of complaining, though, she merely listened and watched. If either of the boys misinterpreted anything, she would quickly be there to correct it. "Is that thing moving?"

"Yes," Harry breathed, losing some of the edge to his tone to incredulity.

"Those are people?" Hermione asked, recognizable alarm punctuating her words.

"Yes, I think so," Harry replied, still unmoving.

"The Shop," Ron confirmed. "They've found us out."

* * *

**A/N: **I certainly hope you enjoyed it! I wrote it while I was doing laundry in the basement of my dorm building, a perfect time of night to conduct such writing. :) Now that it is Thanksgiving Break, I will have time to regard my map and actually fill in the rest of my outline. Perhaps the ending will be around Christmastime, so it will be a sort of present to all my readers! That would be splendid, I think. :) Anway, please leave me a comment, question, or suggestion. I love reading feedback.

Have a great holiday, everyone! And don't forget to see Twilight, even if it is to mock it. :)


	32. After Tonight

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N:** Hello, everyone! I hope everyone's holidays have been going spectacularly. I hope the snow hasn't gotten in anyone's way yet - we've already got half a foot and freezing temperatures! And alas, finals are next week. Then, CHRISTMAS AND FAMILY AND FRIENDS! I'm so excited. I hope all of you are, too, no matter what you celebrate.

Anyway, another chapter! I don't have much to say about it, because it's almost two in the morning and I desperately have to get to bed. I hope you all enjoy it. I have also noticed I have said 'I hope' a lot in these past sentences. Thank you all for putting up with me. Also, there is some romance! :)

* * *

Ron would always remember the way the vast line of people would look against the glare of the emerging afternoon sun. The light would burst forth from the grayness and make him squint and stare at the black wall slowly encroaching upon them. For a split second, the rest of the world dropped away – the sharp intake of breath, swearing, panicking, all of the hurried movements that were usually amplified by fear – and he only knew of the breath in his lungs and the sight set before him. Had the end come? Had the Shop witnessed the abduction of their agent and decided to retaliate?

They would all know soon enough.

Then, reality settled back on his shoulders – the noise surrounding his head and immediately drawing his attention to his counterparts. Harry stood stoically against the horizon – as a hero like himself should do – his shoulders heaving with suppressed emotion. Hermione was glaring up at him with the last half of a question on her lips.

"-do we do?" her brow was wrinkled together worriedly. "We can't possibly outrun them, but I won't stand for surrender." Her words came out as gasps, as if the panic had taken the voice from her throat completely.

Ron could not find an answer as he stared at the woman who had brought him this far. Of course Hermione 'would not stand' for anything less than what she had originally expected. She held the curse of being so unbelievably stubborn that no other offered conclusions could permeate her consciousness. In this moment, Ron marveled at her set, sturdy face. Hermione's mindset was not worried that they had failed – had brought themselves to ultimate death – but how they would go about detaining their defeat. She was so beautiful as her lips crumpled into a tight, white line and her cheeks flushed with worried anticipation – the visage of obstinate ideals. She continued to stare up at him and without meaning to, revealed that she – in some small way – that she still depended on Ron for input.

This meant that he could not falter, break down, or give up. This would mean failure and she would never forgive him. He had to keep his wits, his tact, and whatever was left of his courage to provide her with the hope she required. Of course, she did not need a savior. Harry would play that part if necessary, but Ron was fairly certain it would not come to sacrifice. They faced this new challenge as equals – Hermione did not need him to fend off the bad guys anymore. It was now that Ron truly realized that fact, that vital bit of information that had hounded him for so many months previous.

"Well?" she snapped. Hermione's tone was so hard that Harry was pulled out of his revere.

"D'you think they've seen us?" he wanted to know gravelly, spinning around to survey the landscape that was their backdrop. His heart fell when his eyes were met with a long, wide span of white ground merging unremarkably with gray sky. Four bodies would stand out on the horizon line plainly. Of course they were in sight, noted, and were finally being sought out. Here they stood, waiting for their capture. Harry's head tilted to the left and right. He found nothing that could offer places to hide. That only left magic – but could they outrun wizards in their own element? His mind stirred over the options, considering his Auror training and Hermione's handicap.

Neither Hermione nor Ron bothered to answer the question as they watched Harry's expression fall. Hermione was growing very impatient. Were these two men – trained escapists equipped with wands and wits – going to simply give up? They had made it so far. They had taken Seamus and killed Rivers all by themselves. Her mind went to magic. The quartet would apparate to someplace safe and take off again on foot. It would be risky, but it was their only option. Her thoughts were temporarily jumbled when Ron's rough hand slid into the curvature of her curled palm. She glared at him again and found a solemn expression on his wan face.

"I think it's time," he said under his breath, "to just rest for a while. We did what we came to do. It might not be what we think."

With this, Hermione tore her hand away from his with a furious twist of her lips. "How dare you!" she accused loudly, uncaring of the attention it brought. "Don't say those things. I won't condone-"

"Stop."

Hermione whirled around with blazing eyes, feeling her familiar anger building in her stomach. It was quite empowering to find her old self in the rubble that was her body. "What?" she demanded, her head swimming.

"I said stop it," Harry spat. His face was as serious as hers. "Let's wait a few moments before blowing our tops." He turned to Ron and said, "We can't expect it to be the worst. That could be anyone - even Muggle. You know they lead troops on walks all the time." To Hermione he shook his head, "But we can't run away. There's little chance we'll make it out of sight, even with magic. If that's not the Shop, they'll certainly be alerted to our recent presence if we apparate."

"So we're stuck," Hermione replied quickly. She was quite taken aback at Harry's sour mood. He had told her that she was wrong and she did not care much for that. Who was Harry to make all the decisions when it affected all their lives?

"We're waiting," Harry corrected.

"We're waiting," Ron confirmed, turning his face from Hermione's scrutiny.

"Well," Hermione decided in a thick voice, "I'm not." She began heading off in the direction of the people – as if to meet them head on – and drew her wand from her pocket. Sudden rage had filled her mind and drowned out most of her reason, not that she would have listened to it faced with so much opposition. In her earlier years, she had always been correct - book smart and taking life as it came – and she was tired of the boys making the decisions. She was no longer an invalid or a child, but a functioning adult woman.

"Don't you dare," Ron growled. He lunged forward without thinking and grabbed Hermione's wand arm in a vice-like grip. He pulled her back with unexpected strength and she stumbled over her feet. He grabbed her other arm and forced her to face him. "You are never going to do something so foolish ever again," he hissed, his own brand of anger blooming in his chest. Ron shook her. "You're not going to risk the life I saved in such a stupid manner. Come on, Hermione, you're smarter than that. You are not alone anymore – this is me and you. I won't watch you walk away again."

Ron did not let go, holding up Hermione as she stared dazedly at him. Her scowl came back quickly, but she had been wounded by the truth in Ron's words. Her guilt over leaving before began to swell and her determination faltered around the edges. "That's so cliché," she returned, trying her best to look swelled with anger. In truth, reality was ballooning in her stomach and pressing out all the previous rage that clouded her judgment so conveniently.

Ron threw her an exasperated glare, but did not remove his hand from her arm. He was determined to keep her only inches away for the time being. He didn't give a damn if it was cliché – it was the truth. To watch Hermione walk willingly to her death would destroy him and he would have no other choice but to follow. He inwardly cursed himself for falling so deeply again into love. It was an intense, stubborn sort of feeling that hounded him throughout each day. Eventually, Ron had accepted that he had found his old sentiments and they ruled his body and mind. He cared for Hermione more than he had before the whole accident – yes, he had begrudgingly accepted that it had not been entirely anyone's fault – and that caused pain as well as elation.

It was then that Harry became a part of the couples' consciousness again. Their spat had been dealt with and now it was time to be worried about the Bigger Picture once more. Harry was standing slightly ahead of them, surveying the wall of people coming closer. He could watch the bob of heads and the rustling of uneasy shoulders. He gripped his wand instinctively, but knew that even he could not measure up to the sheer number. He prayed it was not the Shop – for he was fairly certain no one had seen them make their escape in the valley – and it could be Muggle. It was quite uncommon to see a large amount of people traveling together in such a manner. His heart was not as heavy as his counterparts, because he did not expect imminent death. Yet, still, he stood over Seamus protectively.

"I don't think it's the Shop," Harry finally said aloud.

"And why not?" Hermione demanded.

Harry did not turn to look at her, but kept his eyes on the horizon. "If it were the Shop," he mused, "they would be here by now. The element of surprise trumps this method. A march? I hardly doubt they would take the time to come all the way around and then herd us back."

Hermione paused for a moment. This had not occurred to her, but as the thought was mulled over in her head she found the truth in it. The Shop was sporadic and violent – not accustomed to patience when facing danger. She had been there herself, hadn't she? Of course. Hidalgo would not do this. Hidalgo would have found the quartet and slaughtered them on the spot, no questions asked. Of course, he would bring help, but not… an army. Suddenly, Hermione felt slightly foolish. She felt Ron's grip on her arm tighten for only a moment.

"Alright," Ron surmised with a noticeable amount of doubt in his voice, "then, what are they? Who are they?"

"Dunno," Harry shrugged, feeling weight lift off as he did so. It felt good to make a decision. It accomplished something.

"They're coming awfully quickly to be Muggle," Hermione noted dutifully. She had turned her face away from the men. Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment as her previous actions settled in her mind. How foolish, indeed.

They were silent for a while. Ron let his hold on Hermione slip until his hand rested against hers. Harry restructured his shoulders and cast a glance down to Seamus. They had laid out a coat and a blanket for him to rest during their break. His body was sprawled out, mangled, and ugly against the plaid and snow. Harry flinched – an action that had become foreign in recent years – and looked away quickly. If these people were Muggle, then he would deliver Seamus to them on the spot. He would demand medical supplies and proper clothes. No one would refuse a man who looked like Seamus. Ron watched the people draw closer. Now, he could see individuals, body sizes, uniformed clothing. This meant they could probably see him as well.

They waited.

---

Ginny sat under the safety of the tent with her arms wrapped tightly around her body. Most of the cold was blocked by the tarp, but she was still freezing. Her body shook and quaked with no regard for her pale face or teary eyes. She supposed there was something even colder inside of her chest that radiated outward until her limbs could no longer resist temptation. She squatted and then fell backward. Her teeth chattered and her eyes wanted to close. Her mouth wanted to open and let loose the shrill scream that was building in the back of her throat, but her lips were dry and stuck together. If she let them part they would crack and bleed and only add to the agony she felt now.

Seamus lay before her swaddled in white gauze and flesh-colored bandages. Muggle concoctions to mask the real injustices he had suffered. Empty potion bottles and peeled paper littered the ground around his head, a halo of garbage. He slept with his head tilted to the left and showcased his lack of an ear quite vividly. Dried blood ran crusty rivers down his neck and disappeared beneath the blankets. Ginny could not bring herself to move her hands to tuck up his coverings higher, to further mask his injuries. She did not want to look at them, but could not tear her eyes away. They were wide and red and scared. She was in shock as she sat in the small tent and marveled at the man who had confessed love only months ago.

For a moment, Ginny thought she loved Seamus. There were a brief couple of minutes where her heart reached out replayed every moment they had shared together in the past. It was like a slideshow with Seamus' beaming face as the theme. They dissolved quickly as she began raking over his present state. The gore was too much. She felt bile rise in her stomach, but her mouth remained firm. Ginny was disappointed to find that she held no such feeling. She wanted to so much, but love would not come. It was loyalty and devotion that brought her to tears. It was their fierce friendship that shook her body. She wanted to tell him she was so, so sorry.

---

Hermione and Ron sat around a small fire pretending to warm their hands as they stared into the flames. Huddled together, the wind wasn't much of a bother and the cold did not nip through their coats. Hermione nudged at the crease between Ron's arm and torso and was allowed into the space allotted. Ron's hand hung limp over her shoulder and she noted the freckles that speckled the tops of his fingers. There were so many things she wanted to talk about, feeling completely exhilarated. The Order had come, Viktor had shouted, they had set up camp three towns away, and it would only be hours before the downfall of the Shop came. However, Ron did not want to talk about any of these things.

"I want a break," he mumbled into his hand. His fingers pressed against his temples and cheekbones in an effort to break the headache that lurked there. "I haven't been this active in years. Not since the Aurors. I almost forgot how consuming it is."

Hermione kissed the space between his wrist and thumb. She turned back to the flame and held out her own hands to collect its warmth. There was electricity running through her veins and she quite enjoyed it. They were so close. Only a few more hours before the final march. They all planned on her staying behind, but Hermione of course had other plans. She desperately wanted to tell Ron this, but knew he would adamantly disagree.

"You'll do just fine," Hermione managed. She worried for Ron – he looked exhausted. Convincing him to stay and rest would work just as much as it had on her. They would face this battle together, whether they liked it or not. The thought of it assured some part of her – together. That's what they were. _Together._

---

"All right," Viktor growled in the light of the sunset, "I've had enough of this goddamned stop. We're moving out now." He turned to the vast assortment of men standing at attention. "Move out!" he barked with a final sweep of his arm. It was war.

* * *

**A/N:** Did you like it? I hope you did!! :) Please leave me a comment, question, or suggestion. I love getting them mixed in with my student loan e-mails and the such. Have a great rest of the week!

Also: saw Twilight. ajkslfjskdfj kl Robert Pattinson. But meh. It was alright. I liked Laurent, because he was the black mormon doctor on House for a while. I also liked that he was shirtless. ;)


	33. When It Rains

And war it was.

Even after it was over, even as the quiet settled on her for the first time in days, she still flashed back to those defining moments when she _knew_. Hermione's lip quivered as she gripped the windowsill for support. Her eyes glazed over as they wandered out across the sight the glass allowed. It was so strange, this lack of finality. All her mind wanted to do was go back to the camp in the early evening, when the steps of the soldiers were so heavy through the ground that they shook her heart. Her thoughts wanted to take her back to the glow of the fire she sat next to with Ginny for that painful hour, before her decisiveness convinced her that staying behind was no longer an option. Hermione slid onto the pillowed shelf that accompanied the window and rested her bruised forehead against the pane. She was alive, though her mind would not let her fully realize it.

As her back relaxed against the wood paneling and her neck bent slightly so her chin brushed her chest, Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. Perhaps if she let the entire episode replay without interruption, she could come to some sort of conclusion that had previously been denied. Perhaps then she would be able to stop the aching of her chest and calm the weariness that resided in her limbs. _The end_ was just as abstract as it had been when it had started as _the beginning _– something she knew would come and it did, but brought no real sense of resolution. Things were just as messy and there was no breaking point. She hadn't counted on the rest of her life catching up so quickly. Hermione let a harsh breath escape her mouth. She felt queasy as her head swam. She did not stop the whirlwind, but let it envelop her.

---

The wind whipped through the tops of the trees that provided what was left of the camp shelter from the frigid cold and brought nothing but the sound of breaking branches and scuttling foliage. She turned her face towards the direction the troop had set off in and grew uneasy when her ears no longer picked up the sound of them. Comforted earlier with the regular noises of rustling clothes and whispers, Hermione grimaced. She felt herself more on edge that ever before. Even with Ginny close by in the tent that Seamus lay in and her own not ten feet from her, Hermione could not grip the sense of group any longer. They had left without her. Viktor had taken her aside with a rough grip and hissed that fact in her face, warming her cheeks with his hot, insistent breath. Harry had been in the background wearing a somber visage and walked away without a word.

Ron, on the other hand, had drawn her quickly to his chest. Viktor's commands rang about the small camp and the imminence of it all echoed off their bodies and took seed in their minds. Yet, still, Ron wrapped his arms around her body and did not let go for a long time. He rested his nose on the top of her head and smelled her damp curls. Hermione clung to him, knowing all the while this would not be the very last time they would meet. Still, for his benefit, she pretended that it was. Tears filled her eyes as she played her part with more emotion than she expected.

Ron tipped her head back and held it in between his frozen hands firmly. His lips parted and remained silent, until another of Viktor's calls to action hit the couple like a tidal wave. Ron broke his gaze to look hurriedly over his shoulder and then returned to hers immediately. Now, his mouth was fully open and ready to speak.

"I love you," he gasped. "I always loved you, even when I didn't want to. I love you, Hermione. I love you. I love you." Ron's eyes searched her face for any sort of response, but knew he didn't need one. He was so bewildered with his admission that he could not stop repeating that one, simple fact. "I will always love you."

Hermione silenced him with a kiss. Her lips pressed hard against his and felt pain as they cracked in response to the pressure. She licked her lower lip and gasped softly when she met his tongue there. She was acutely aware of Ron in that moment – the way he stood hunched down to meet her, the insatiable movement of his fingers in her hair, the urgency of his mouth against hers – every inch of her skin knew him. She broke away only for a second to whisper, "I love you, too."

Ron pressed his forehead against hers and his eyes shut tight at her words. He cracked a nonplus smile with his teeth gnashed together. Hermione kissed his cheeks one after the other. He swallowed audibly. And then, when he found that no thought or word in his reach could ever define what he felt, Ron kissed Hermione again instead. His heart heaved and he thought that he might cease to exist. Everything about this spot in time was perfect, if not terribly so. It would come to an end soon enough and that was something Ron couldn't stand. His mouth burned across the skin of her throat. His hands were so tight against her body they might never have moved again. His knees buckled as she sighed.

Viktor's shouts barged in on their moment and eventually, Ron broke their embrace. His face conveyed the pain he felt at leaving, so they did not discuss their departure. Hermione instead kissed his palm and pressed it to her flushed cheek. She knew what Ron was going to do – fight, kill – and found that her ability to smile had vanished. He thought this may be the last time he would see her. It was tearing him apart. Hermione's tongue desperately wanted to tell him that she would be with him soon enough, but her mind knew enough to override the want. Instead, she let her tears of faith fall unabashedly.

Deftly, Ron smeared them away as best he could with the side of his thumb. He left streaks of dirt in their wake. Again, he broke a crooked smile and held his hands steady around her face.

"You have to go now," Hermione told him.

"I know," Ron spoke in a gravelly voice.

Hermione gently tugged on his arms. She sighed a great breath and smiled up to him. "Ron ," she whispered, "_go_."

"When I come back," he tried to say without his voice breaking, "we're going to go away together. For real this time." He pressed his forehead against hers again and struggled to say aloud the rest of his sentence. "A place nobody knows," he insisted. "A place you don't have to worry about a single, goddamned thing. A place where I can love you all the time, without any interruptions. This is our second chance. I promise I'm going to sweep you off your feet this time. When I come back, things are going to be different."

Her eyes fell for a moment and her head shook softly, uncontrollably.

"What is it?" Ron was at arm's length now, still grasping her hands tightly. He was quickly being drawn away with the tide of people scrambling to get into rank. He was needed, now, but could not go just yet. He paid no attention to the grandeur of the proposal that had just slipped from his mouth – that didn't matter. He had said it truthfully and would not dwell on it any further. Now, in the precious seconds left, Ron would worry only about the way Hermione's mouth twisted downwards.

"Nothing," Hermione replied quickly, the words wrenched from her lips too fast to be fully amplified by her voice. Instead, it was a harsh gasp of noise that sounded rushed and worried. Tears began to fall in a steady stream now as her eyes gazed upwards. "Nothing at all."

"Ron!" Harry's voice was so loud that the couple jumped in unison. The tall, black-haired man appeared at Ron's side in an instant with a frown on his face and a wand clutched in his hand. "It's time to go." Harry turned to Hermione and nodded. "See you later."

Ron's fingers slipped none too gently from her grasp as he was led away by Harry, who paused for only a moment. He turned back and said, "Look after Ginny." He turned his face and that was it. Hermione stayed stone still as she watched them hurry along the path that was forming in the mud. The dark of the night swallowed their bodies, but did not muffle the sound of their footsteps or Viktor's pressing shouts.

"I love you."

---

Hermione knew the promises Ron made in the camp were to keep hope alive. Not just for her, but something that would reside in his mind as a reminder that he could not lose his life tonight or any other night forever. She twisted her burned hands together and pressed the lump of flesh and bones against the cooling sensation of the window. It stung her fists, but she only pressed harder.

---

"Where are you going?" Ginny frowned.

Hermione's entire body stiffened. Her ears perked at the sound of human voice. She was unsure at the moment if the question was meant for her or for someone else who had been left behind around the dying glow of the campfire. Quickly, though, when no one else responded, Hermione pocketed her wand and turned to face her accuser.

Ginny drew back the tent flap fully and ducked out into the chilly, night air. She shivered involuntarily and that helped to shake out the ache in her knees and shoulders. She had spent over an hour in the same, cramped position by Seamus' cot inside. Of course, he was not awake – no one predicted he would be for quite a while – but Ginny insisted on bathing his face with warm cloths and tucking in his blankets. Horrendous guilt hounded her and this was her self-defined penance.

"Well?" she demanded, not all too keen on being nice.

"Out there," Hermione replied coolly.

Ginny brushed her hands against her hips and straightened her hair as she approached the circle around the fire. "Out where?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "You know where. Out there. To them."

"What are you talking about?" Ginny took a seat on the bench closest to the embers and held out her hands. The cold was increasing as the hours took them into the early morning. She felt incredibly tired as her eyebrows furrowed. "Who is _them_?"

"Ginny-"

"Oh," Ginny's head jerked up, "oh, you mean them as in Harry, Ron, and Viktor. You mean the Aurors that are going into the dead of night to slaughter the group that almost put you in the ground. No wait, they did that already. You're going to help them fight – is that it? By stealing away by yourself in hopes you can pick up their tracks and maybe, just maybe, if you run fast enough you can catch the end of the fight and feel some sort of accomplishment as you step over dead bodies and cast a few hexes? Is that what you mean, Hermione? What else could you possibly be doing? Isn't that right?"

Ginny was making the escape easier than expected. She had not yet gotten to the scolding – the part where she threatened to tell someone, like most of their fights ended up – and Hermione was glad to cut her off. "Yes, Gin, I am going out there. I want to go. It's final. Go back to bed." Her words were clipped and taught, enough to keep Ginny at a distance.

"Go ahead." Ginny's eyes glinted viciously through the darkness. "Go get yourself killed. Go ruin everything my brother tried to keep you from. Disregard what Harry told you. Go ahead. I don't care anymore."

---

The stillness of the room provided her mind to drift every way imaginable. Instead of skipping ahead a few hours to the part where, in fact, Hermione did catch their trail; Hermione's thoughts played on all the different things she could have told Ginny in that moment. Instead of leaving, Hermione could have said, "I love you, Ginny," or, "This is for the best," or even better, "Nothing you say could stop me."

But… Hermione had left Ginny all alone with no words to mull over, hate, or cherish. Hermione had nodded – much like Harry had done – and crept back into the secret world of night with her lips drawn tight.

---

It took two hours to find the valley again. Hermione's ankles felt the burn of the snow and wind, her knees the ache of overuse and old injury, and her face the sting of morning dew. Her fingers became so numb she had to tuck away her wand, so that she would not accidentally drop it. She played a game as she walked – pretending that Ron's hair shone so bright under the stars it became a beacon for her to follow. In actuality, the footprints were a dead giveaway, but the loneliness could only be cured with thoughts of Ron.

Then, in the last half hour of walking, Hermione heard noises. She heard far-off shrieks and screams. She paused for a second, shocked by the new appearance of sound. It was haunting. However, it was also progress. The shouting only made Hermione recite in her head _I will be strong. I will overcome. I will be strong. I will overcome. I must. I must. _As she drew nearer, the voices became more distinct, harsh.

---

Hermione cringed. She could have drawn back at that point. She could have realized how much danger she was about to incur. She could have done so many things differently. Hermione rocked herself slowly, trying to stop the next images from washing over her. It was no use – the most important part of the process had begun.

There was a knock on the door. It was so soft it barely stirred Hermione from her daydream. "Are you in there, love?" A matronly voice carried from the hallway as a weary eye peaked in through the slot between door and frame. "Do you need anything?"

Hermione shook her head dazedly. Her stomach squirmed beneath her rigid arms as she was jerked from the war. She could feel a stare of pity on her back, but did nothing to acknowledge it. Instead, she waited for the other to leave. It took a few moments. Then, there were heavy footsteps that faded into nothing. She was left to history again.

---

"Accio vase!" Harry shouted fiercely, keeping the middle-aged man who was trying to attack at bay with nothing more than a few slugs to the gut.

The man rose as the group of people teemed throughout the room and deluded Harry's perception of space. Again, this man lunged with teeth bared and snapped wand still clutched in his hand. Luckily, the vase was securely in Harry's hand by the time he reached his feet. Harry watched the man's mouth open and vaguely heard him shout something, but the roar of the crowd enveloped the crucial consonants and vowels contained in the threat. Instead of caring, Harry grabbed the robes of the man and gave them a jerk. The man tripped and fell towards Harry's chest. At the last second, Harry brought the vase down as hard as he could on the skull of his attacker.

Without bothering to watch him fall, Harry shrugged off the sickening sound of breaking bone and turned his back to find another opponent. His body was on the fritz – resorting to physical combat in the place of carefully placed spells – and the only thing that could cure him was to rid his body of the adrenaline that coursed like electricity through his veins. Harry quite enjoyed letting himself go to the moment, making himself part of something bigger and better, dangerous and enticing. He relished the demise of the monsters.

Harry caught sight of a flash of red hair as he grabbed the collar of a woman's work shirt. Her hair twisted around his fingers and he pulled it as tight as he could, drawing a gnarled scream. The woman struggled to turn around. Harry kicked out the back of her knees. She fell easily, surprised the attack had not been magical. She had only been trained in combat that used hexes and curses, not fists and feet. Again, Harry took hold of the crown of her head and tilted her head back so far that her pale neck stood out against the bleak surroundings.

"Tell me where he is," Harry hissed, his wand dug deep into the skin behind her ear. "Tell me, or I swear to God I'll kill you."

The woman's chest moved up and down violently as her teeth gnashed together from the pain. "Never," she spat. It was fear that inspired loyalty around the Shop – something Harry was beginning to understand now that he had murdered four people already with the same question. There was no jest involved, no game about who _he _could be. These people would simply not give up anything.

"Fine." Harry released her hair and pushed her so she landed face-down on the ground. She only had a second to wriggle onto her back before Harry snapped, "Avada Kedavra."

Again, he turned away as not to see the end result. He no longer cared, though his eyes stung with the sharpness of green light. Harry's new mission was to find that red hair again, to join forces, and find Hidalgo Skillen. He would not go alone – Ron would not allow it. Harry fought his way through the milling of people, clawing his way to fresh air. It was an evenly-matched fight. The element of surprise had worked well. He was still alive and so was Ron. That's all he needed for now.

Then, Harry collided with another body entirely. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and the shock made his reflexes faster. He snatched up an arm and pulled it close. He raised his fist with every intention of smashing it into whichever face accompanied the body, but stopped when this person said his name in a startlingly familiar voice.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed at the top of her lungs. "Harry!" Her eyes were wide with fear as she stared into blank, empty ones that reflected only her face. "It's me!" her shrieks were hoarse and scared. She had never seen Harry act like this. "Harry!"

"Hermione?" his voice was distant.

"Yes!"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Harry's grip did not slip away, but remained steel-like. "You're supposed to be with Ginny! What the fuck are you doing? What happened? Fuck, Hermione, we don't have time for this!" Harry pushed her away roughly.

Hermione stumbled and reached for her wand with her good arm. She tried not to appear shaken, but it took too much self-control. "Everything is fine – I'm here to help."

Harry stared at her incredulously for a moment. His hair was sticking out in fantastic directions and there were smears of blood across his neck and robes. He looked like a madman. "Fuck!" he declared. "Let's just shoot this whole thing to hell, why don't we!" He bent down in Hermione's face, knowing he was wasting precious time, and hissed, "Get the fuck out of the way and stay quiet. Follow me."

Hermione bobbed her head and ducked to avoid a chair being tossed across the lawn. She had only just arrived, wading through the throng, and Harry had fallen upon her like a gift. She had expected a better introduction, but she would take what she could get. She watched Harry run a hand through his hair and across his face. She heard him mutter, "Ron is going to fucking slaughter me. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_."

The pair found their way in what was left of the front door – it had been an obvious blasting point – and wormed their way past friend and foe for several feet. Hermione recognized the dining room and the kitchen, but said nothing. It wouldn't be of use anyway. She nearly tripped over a pile of corpses in her attempt to follow Harry's quick gait. Bile rose in her belly, but she said nothing still. Hermione realized she had not fully thought through her introduction to Ron. If meeting Harry had been bad, she shuddered to think what Ron might to do her – or Harry.

_Shit is right_ she thought sickeningly. Still, it was too late to leave.

Harry paused only to aid Viktor in smashing a body into the nearest wall. Panting, Viktor threw Hermione a deadly look, but said nothing. Blinking back the hatred, Hermione found that he had vanished. Harry was already many steps ahead and she knew she was over her head. A man fell on her with wide, unseeing eyes. She shrieked, "_Confringo!_" at the body and immediately, the skin began to boil and peel.

---

_Merlin cried_. Hermione shut her eyes and winced at the memory. That man was already dead. That man was innocent – he was not part of the Shop. It took several hours before the horror of that second-long incident hit her. She would never forgive herself for disgracing a body like that. Just another mistake in a long line of errors made that night, by all estimations, but never to be forgotten.

---

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Ron screamed, dropping the man who was already unconscious in favor of Harry's collar. His eyes were blazing. His lips were cracked. Half of his face was badly burned. "Who the _fuck_ are you to bring her here?" His fists shook with rage as his eyes darted from Harry's stern face to Hermione's.

"Put him down!" Hermione shouted, appearing at his arm. "It was my decision. I'm sorry!"

Ron gave Harry and extra throttle and then threw him to the ground. He rounded on Hermione with a terrible expression. "What are you doing here?" Ron stepped aside to throw a punch.

"Help," Hermione gasped. "I'm here to help you!"

"A shitload of help you're doing now!" Ron shouted in reply. "_Avada Kedavra,_" he hissed, pointing his wand over her shoulder. Hermione turned just in time to watch a woman fall to the ground, just in time to feel the aftershock of the curse.

"You killed her," the words were shaky and foreign as they passed over her lips. Hermione whipped back around to stare at Ron.

"That's what we do, or have you forgotten?" Ron shot back. The room was relatively clear of Shop by now. Harry had gone without comment. Viktor was in the front room. He took up Hermione's arm in his hand and dragged her into a darkened corner. She would be safest in the shadows. The commotion all around was so confusing and fast that no one would take the time to peek about until much later. He could not bothered to be hurt by the look on her face as she allowed herself to be dragged about. "Now," he growled, "you stay in here. I don't care if you're trained and willing. I won't let you go out there and kill yourself. You let me deal with this."

"No!" Hermione insisted. "I want the Shop dead just as much as any one of you." Courage was racing with the new burst of adrenaline that shot through her body. Her stubbornness was good for something.

"Fuck, Hermione," Ron gasped, pressing his hand to his temple. "I just killed a woman and you looked like you might throw up. You can't handle this right now. It's understandable. So _stay here_."

Ron turned without hesitation. Of course she wasn't going to listen to him. _Fuck._ Fuck! He kicked an outstretched arm as he ran into the squabble. He had to find Skillen immediately. This had been his plan all along, but now it was the sole factor of the whole mission. Find Skillen, kill him, and leave. Let the rest of the Aurors – the trained soldiers brought here to specifically fight the Shop – deal with the lot of sons of bitches. He just wanted to get the hell out of Russia.

---

The sunset was nothing special. Clouds drifted heavily across the sky and cast large, lazy shadows throughout the empty room. Hermione curled further into herself as she was blanketed in darkness. There was a red haze that seemed to glow from the ground up. She stared at the unfinished scene until her eyes dried and hurt.

That moment spent in the corner was the last she saw of Ron for a long while. Hermione wished she had followed him, instead of avoiding him.

---

Hermione only waited until Ron was out of sight to dip away from her appointed hideout. The sound of his voice was still fresh in her ears, but the message had been lost. This was no time to wait – she had heard enough of that. She was going to prove the boys wrong again. It happened so often that it was almost commonplace. Her stubbornness overrode most of her fear, enabling her to search out a first target. She slipped from the kitchen, careful of her feet, and immersed into the fight.

The kitchen became the living room, but there was a door by the stove that led into a study. Hermione's bearings came back quickly – she had, after all, lived in the house for a while. The study was under the stairs, so it was shaky ground for a battle. She doubted anyone would be in the small room, but checked anyway. Bursting through the doors without much attention to the racket she made, Hermione drew her wand and widened her eyes.

The study was darkened and empty. No one had bothered with it. There were groaning noises that came from the ceiling as the staircase was being eradicated and dust flying through the air, but nothing moved. Relief flushed embarrassingly through her. Hermione slumped against the closed door and took a shaky breath. Her hardheadedness had only lasted for so long.

"_Sectumsempra," _a whisper hissed through the dark.

There was a bright flash of red light and Hermione felt her body go rigid against the doorframe. Shock took the place of pain, but only for an instant. As warm blood covered her hands, Hermione clutched at her leg as she crumpled to the floor. She shrieked loudly.

"Shut up," the same voice hissed. A woman scrambled out from underneath the desk across the room. "Or I'll kill you right now."

"How do you know that spell?" Hermione snapped as soon as she saw the familiar face. "How could you possibly-?"

"I read your notes," the woman replied, hurriedly brushing dirt from her pants. There was no time for real talk. Her sanctuary was underneath that table. She didn't care if Skillen or any other agents found her underneath there after the whole ordeal had passed – survival was top priority. However, survival within the Shop meant leverage. Hermione Granger would save her life. "For enemies, am I correct?"

Hermione growled as her teeth ground hard against each other. Why her leg? God, the pain was making her dizzy. The scent of salt was so heavy in the air it made her nauseous. Heather – or whatever her name was now, it didn't matter – was coming in and out of focus. She had grown pale and withered in the months she had been at the Shop, very different from the affable social worker sent from the Ministry. Her eyes raked across the room nervously as the wand in her hand shook. Heather did her best to tuck away her hair, but the erratic way she snapped her neck prevented any real change.

"Yes," Hermione hissed through the spots in her vision, trying to buy herself time. Talking took up the time, precious time. "That's right. Ron had notebooks lying all across his room. I didn't know he let you snoop through them."

Felicity didn't notice the remark. Instead, she spent her precious time pacing. What was she going to do with the body? She had to hide it somewhere for safe keeping, just until Skillen called on her for abandoning the fight. Her excuse would be simple – that the death of Granger would have been an all-consuming task. But even the small frame wouldn't fit underneath the desk. Could she afford to abandon her place? "Shut up."

Hermione gingerly felt her leg. As her fingers pressed lightly against the flesh, she felt the curt surface of her wand. It hadn't broken in the fall. Her eyes flashed upwards in thanks, but quickly returned to watch her opponent. This was a fight now – possible endings rushed through her mind at an astonishing pace. The only way to return to the others would be through killing Heather. She cringed as the curse's words shone brightly behind her lids, but tried to shake them off professionally. She needed Ron's mindset. How fast could she draw her wand? How long would it take for Heather to notice? To fall? Sweat ran down her face as the air in the study warmed.

The next moment flashed by, blurring so fast that Hermione reacted purely on instinct.

"_Levicorpus,_" Felicity hissed, flicking her wrist without warning.

Hermione felt a jerk at her navel suddenly, and watched as her feet swung up over her head. She was drifting towards the ceiling as she reached out with the hand not occupied with her wand to grab Heather's arm. She bit it as hard as she could, almost vomiting at the taste of warm blood. The dizziness threatened to take her away from consciousness. Faintly, she heard Heather scream in paranoia. Hermione was jerked to the side as Heather snatched her wounded arm away, her mouth open in shock.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _Hermione spat, blood flaking across Heather's cheeks. The flash was blinding, but the pain that accompanied it was excruciating. The women fell at the same time, crumpling into a heap. Hermione landed hard on her shoulder and yelped. Heather said nothing at all.

Hermione let her head settle against the carpet for a moment. She let her body collect itself – take a mental inventory – before attempting to move again. She heard her breath come in a constant pattern through her teeth. She could feel the blood pumping through her neck. Her face was hot in result of the smoky air that swarmed around the ceiling. Her arms were taught, trying to hold her off of the body below while trying to protect her tender shoulder. Her leg wound was still fresh and stinging. In a fluid motion, she rolled herself off of Heather and onto her back. Hermione found her wand and sat up, hands wrapped around her bloodied pant leg.

"SPELL HERE," she said aloud, startled by the sound of her own voice. With all the din going on in the other rooms, being alone was strange enough. To hear an echo off polished wood and silver was simply unimaginable.

Hermione rolled her shoulders and began to figure out her next step. She picked herself up off the floor with a small amount of difficulty. She could find a place to hide – just as Ron had asked – if there were any available. However, the smoke (now very visibly) billowing in through the windows was an indication that the space left for hiding would be gone soon, along with the rest of the structure. The stench of burning was heavy in the air. Perhaps the field outside would have plenty of spaces to conceal her for the rest of the ordeal. Ginny's words rang clear through her mind and she felt ashamed. She shouldn't have come to this place.

But there was little time to mull it over – plenty of time for regrets afterward. The door was opening as the windows spider webbed in their frames. The heat was too much for them to withstand. Hermione stood completely still, eyes darting from the body to the door with too many thoughts to act on any one in particular.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Harry's voice was sharp through the haze. He squinted his eyes through the smog, eyebrows creasing at the sight of Hermione. His cheeks burned as he quickly made his way across the room. He nudged Heather's side with the tip of his foot. "And who the _fuck_ is this?"

"Doesn't matter," Hermione gasped. Her breath blistered all the way down. "Let's get out of here."

Harry didn't reply. Instead, he turned quickly, taking up her arm with a tight fist, and led them both out the doorframe. "Good God," he muttered to himself, practically throwing himself and Hermione down the hallway. They picked their way carefully over potholes and piles of bodies, leaving behind bloodied footprints to mark their path. Rot reeked in the air. Everyone else had the common sense to evacuate a good few minutes before – but there had been the shadow of a body in the window. Damn his hero complex, Harry thought sarcastically.

Outside, Hermione fell to her knees as soon as Harry let go of her arm. The air was sweet and cool as it filled her mouth. The confusion seemed manageable in a larger space. She was glad to be rid of the cramped, smoky study. People milled about still – but their calls were more for aid and assistance, instead of spells and hexes. There were bright flashes of purple and green appearing through the darkness on the other side of the house – the central location for fighting. The Order and the Shop had informally declared their bases behind various bits of debris that rained from the flaming house. Though the snow chilled her, Hermione pressed her leg further into a drift. The marks were no longer visible, but the pain was a dull thud. She watched the house burn red and black.

Harry stood next to her, agitated. He felt like he was babysitting, but couldn't leave to calm his anxiousness. Those feelings were quelled as there was a great crashing noise. It sounded like trees being thrashed, their trunks cracking as they fell. The vibration blanketed the valley. It reverberated against the snow and shook the bodies that lay on top of the banks. Before Harry and Hermione's eyes, the house began to crumble. Well, at least the portion facing them. The stairs had caved in as the fire disintegrated the support beams – taking the study room and the kitchen down with it. Hermione's mouth opened upon feeling the heat waves crash against her cool skin. Her back arched against the rolls of fire.

Again, they had to move backwards. Harry abandoned her soon after in favor of fighting – it wasn't over, after all. His duty was to finish, not stand around. He didn't care to share this reasoning and fled the scene in silence. Another man came to Hermione's side soon after, identifying himself as an Auror and offering help with an open palm. Hermione shook him off distractedly – she, too, was busy. Ron was still missing.

"Look out!" the man shouted, grabbing her shoulder jarringly. She screamed in pain before landing face-down in the snow. Only a second later did a body land with a loud crunch beside her. Bits of broken glass showered the trio.

There was a brief pause, allowing the both of them to contemplate the crash. The man helped Hermione roll onto her back. He shook glass out of his hair before focusing on the body next to her. Hermione withdrew her arm as it grazed the hideous lump of flesh. His eyes widened. "Jesus Christ," he murmured, turning his attention back to Hermione. "You got lucky. I'll be around."

Hermione's mouth twisted painfully downward as she glanced quickly at the body. Fear slashed at her heart as she realized it could be Ron. The skin – though charred and bruised – was far too dark for Ron's freckly complexion. Before she could breathe the sigh of relief pent up hours ago in her body, Hermione realized something else: she still recognized the victim. Ulysses Nash's eyebrows were a distinguishing feature over eyes sockets that had been gouged terribly. Blood crept slowly from the shards that sprinkled his neck in thin, worm-like trails. Her heart began to beat faster as she tried to rid herself of the sight. Vomit came quickly.

Brushing her lips with the back of a shaking hand, Hermione's eyes flashed towards the window that Nash had fallen from. Smoke poured from the blackened hole that used to hold glass. There were bodies still up there, circling and darting from sight. The shadows were large, illuminated by the dull undertones of flame. Hermione pushed herself to her feet and staggered closer to the house – close enough to catch a glimpse of whoever it was that dared still inhabit the bedrooms. She had to know if Ron was still up there. It was conceivable – she was thinking of the infamous hardheadedness that dominated his personality.

If Nash had been up on the second story, chances were that Shale and Rivers were up there as well. The Heads functioned as a group most of the time. Perhaps Skillen was up there leading them. Hermione swallowed the hope that they were the only ones left - that they would burn surrounded by only their failed plans and shame. And yet, the body by the hole did not look a thing like any of the men she had previously thought of. Viktor Krum's nose was a giveaway.

Hermione let out a strangled sigh. Viktor was up there.

----

"I'd call it a draw," Skillen conceded without emotion. His arm was still rigid, as if his wand weighed ten pounds. His aim was dead-on and unwavering, allowing him to look away from his target with complete confidence. Skillen was not a man to be caught unawares, no matter the situation. "Ready to compromise?"

"Never," Ron spat, running his tongue over his lip. He tasted the heavy salt of sweat. His arm, too, was pointed rigorously at another.

"Good," Skillen hissed. "I wasn't, either." Without a moment's hesitation, he turned quickly to Krum and bellowed, "_Pello_!" He had little time to feel the satisfaction that should have accompanied the moment. Skillen turned just in time to watch Shale crumple to the ground.

Viktor's feet left the ground as he grunted. The weight on his chest was like a fist driving him backward. Skillen had cornered him where the floor had fallen away during the staircase crash. Below was the fire, feeding off the freshly dead and rotting wood. The weight had gone, to be replaced with a stinging, floating feeling. The heat on his back was immense. Viktor opened his eyes as wide as they could go through the thick ash and wind, scared this might be the last thing he would ever see. His only reward was the ceiling.

"Viktor!" Ron shouted, turning his attention away from the dead man lying by the foot of the bed. He searched the ledge where his partner – his means of escape – had been standing only seconds ago. All he found was the dismal, fiery scene that Viktor had been a part of for only a short while.

His nostrils flared, his hand clenched his wand, his eyes slanted, and his teeth gnashed together – all in preparation. This new development left only Ron and Skillen to duel over who won and who lost, who lived and who perished.

"_Avada Kedavra," _Ron snarled in a feral tone. His body went rigid as the incantation swiftly left his body and wrapped around his wand. It exploded off the tip in a burst of green light. There was a sick satisfaction in watching it dart towards Skillen.

Skillen ducked artfully, rolling away from the flash. They both watched the bolt continue out the shattered window frame and disappear into the night. Skillen was unruffled. He rolled his eyes and rounded on Ron, wand drawn. "That's not fair, Mr. Weasley," he sniffed, "you aren't the gentleman I thought you to be."

"You _killed him,_" Ron spat through his teeth, uncaring of the spit that dripped off his lips. The moisture was soothing, if anything else. "And now I'm going to kill _you_." He positioned his feet far apart to give the rest of his body the strength it would need. Tunnel vision overtook his frame of mind. A dangerous thing to happen, but Ron knew there was no way to counteract his own body.

"Now, you don't know that he's dead, do you? Krum just took a tumble. Can't we talk this over?" Skillen smiled.

Ron spat on the floor as his rage intensified. Skillen didn't want to talk about anything; he was just putting off the inevitable. By waiting to fight, the fire would grow and consume the rest of the house and increase the chances of floor rotting through. "Hermione Granger. Seamus Finnigan. Viktor Krum." It was a struggle just to form sentences when the urge to destroy was so powerful.

"Yes, your friends," Skillen replied. He paced the room as Ron began to advance. There would always be a safe distance between them.

"No," Ron returned, "the people who brought me here."

"_Brought you here_," Skillen turned the words over in his mouth mirthfully. "The people who sentenced you to death, to be absolutely correct."

Ron took a lunge forward and screamed the Killing Curse a second time, the spell rippling off his wand in quick succession. Skillen had to drop to the floor to miss. The air left his lungs and for the first time in a long time, Hidalgo was surprised. Again, the curse was aimed at him and he was forced to roll towards the pit Krum was in.

"Stop it." The words ripped from Skillen's lips viciously. He pushed against the floor and found himself on his knees. "_Avada Kedavra!" _he shrieked. It was in insult to be attacked in such a manner – the glorious mudblood lovers were such… animals. Degrading – that was what it felt like to have to fight Ron Weasley.

Ron found that once the spell left his lips, there was another one waiting to be said. Blindly, he shot off the curse in multiple directions. They would escape through the window and walls or land on Skillen, he figured. The strategy was crude, but hopefully effective. His anger – coupled with the intense heat and smog - would not allow higher thinking.

Skillen was dancing through flashes, swearing and screaming while trying to hold onto his wand. Weasley would not give him time to calculate much. It was extremely frustrating. "_Protego!" _he kept shouting, throwing his wand over his face. He couldn't understand why the shield was not up to par – something was drastically wrong. No longer did he have the footing he was accustomed to, making his heart pump ridiculously. _"Protego!"_

The bed began to catch fire. It crackled and sparked, finding interest into the body of David Shale and the floorboards beneath him. Ron could feel it on the back of his legs and knew his position would be gone in a matter of moments. His gaze flashed around the room and found no possibilities anywhere. He was surprised that the room still stood. The only option was to try to escape through the window, but prevent Skillen from accessing it as well.

Skillen stood and huffed in the brief moment Weasley allowed him in the rampage of spells. "_Protego!" _he bellowed with all the force still left in his body. With a billowing arm movement, he was placed securely behind a wall of glowing purple. His defense set up cleanly, Skillen felt more assured of his victory. Of course, with his yelling, he also attracted Weasley's attention once more.

Ron actually smirked through the simmering air and muffled breathing. Sweat poured down his body and his clothes clung to him uncomfortably. There were disconcerting crackling noises behind him, typical of breaking boards. His nose stung with the smoke that he was breathing in heavily. Perhaps there would be no way out of this now, but he would remain until he saw Skillen's body burn. He could barely see where Skillen stood, if not for his shield. Skillen was… just standing there. As if defiant? Did this fool not realize that _Protego _did nothing against dark spells? It was a simple spell – childish, almost – that would bring about his downfall? It was too easy.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

---

The sun had vanished completely, leaving the room uncomfortably cold. She had already slipped off the shelf and was now venturing down the hallway. Already having listened patiently for sounds of activity and already having found none, Hermione found it safe to retire herself to bed. Dinner was a luxury that she did not want, which was not so surprising anymore. It was strange – having everything at her disposal again, knowing that it was just in reach.

The bathroom was small and dimly lit, but held a sink and bath. The medicine cabinet held various bandages and poultices. That was all she needed, really. Hermione let the water from the tap flow over her stinging hands. Her bandages grew soggy, so she unwrapped them gingerly. A bath would have been nice, but it was also a mysterious treat she could go without for a while. Hermione ran a warmed, wet towel over her face and neck. She barely glanced at her reflection in the mirror that hung over the sink – it wasn't worth the panic. There were large gashes around her forehead from the glass and bruises that flowered around her chin from crashing so hard on the floor.

Her fingers ran across the metal handle that controlled the cool water. Her thoughts were lost in other places now, not anything of the battle remained. There was a drained feeling in her limbs as she finally gave the tap a jerk. Hermione let herself settle on the edge of the tub and pulled up her pant legs. It was weird to feel her own fingers doing the tasks that Ron otherwise took care of – it had been so normative for so long, it felt almost wrong to be doing it herself. Her face warmed with the reflection of his name. God, he had babied her.

Hermione put her face between her hands and willed her heart to stop hurting. It would be useless to cry now, having just washed her face. She took a great breath in sometime after that and smelled faintly the scent of ash. It was too much. Hurriedly, Hermione rolled fresh gauze over her wounds and exited the bathroom.

Her bedroom was only a few feet away. Ginny's door was closed, darkness spilling out from under the door. She and Harry had been spending a lot of their time behind closed doors – yelling, crying, screaming, and groaning. No one blamed them. Seamus' condition wasn't improving and caused Ginny more sadness than anyone else. Harry couldn't understand why she was so lax towards him, while her own brother was…

Hermione shook her head. They were asleep. The whole house probably was by now. She opened the door to find herself encompassed in blackness. Though wholly unfamiliar, the dark was comforting. It allowed her to be invisible to everything and everyone else that existed. That's all she wished for in the past two days. Some looked on her with contempt, with anger, and others with pity. Equal ground no longer existed, not even amongst her friends and family. Everyone had an opinion and not many held her in high respects. To Hermione Granger, that was devastating. Mrs. Weasley told her to being the process of moving on the day before, but she could not fathom how to go about enacting the first step – what was that, anyway?

Tears pricked at her eyes. Hermione could not help the urge to sigh aloud and frowned when it sounded watery. She slipped into bed, but could not appreciate the heat it offered. Again, a gasp escaped her lips.

"Don't cry," a stony voice mumbled.

Quickly, Hermione wiped away her tears. "What are you doing up?" she snapped, catching the shine of Ron's open eyes in the dark. "Go to sleep. You need to rest."

Ron tried to smile wearily, but the feeling in his face had not all returned. He had spent a great while lying in the snow after having jumped from the window and broken several of his bones in the fall. It was a pain to blink, but consciousness was a commodity too precious to waste now. He realized he had been fading in and out for a while, but he could not ignore Hermione.

"Will you kiss me?" he mumbled again, unable to use reflection or humor in his tone.

Hermione swiped at her eyes again and rolled onto her side. "Only if you promise to go to sleep promptly afterwards," she muttered.

"Ok," was all that Ron could muster. He was glad that someone had rolled him onto his side to face the empty side of the bed. Once he wondered why no one had taken him to a hospital, but figured Hermione knew best – he had, after all, taught her how.

Hermione pressed her lips against Ron's scabby mouth. She felt his gentle sigh against her cheek and fought the urge to cry. "Now," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder, "go to sleep."

"I love you."

She watched him fall asleep – it didn't take very long. "I love you, too," Hermione whispered, running the tips of her fingers down his reddened cheek. In a matter of hours, she would have to apply a draught, but for now… everything was fine. Her state of depression was inexplicable and she knew that it was shock. She had escaped. She had conquered. Granted, at the expense of countless others – that was where the tight chest and teary eyes came from – but Hermione was free.

"I love you, too."


	34. The Times They Are AChangin'

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP :)

**A/N: **Hello, everyone! I am back, finally, after a long absence due to a research paper in an english class. Spring has been rough on my concentration - my dorm room is so small and outside is so big. Anyway, thank you to all who reviewed my last chapter. I do realize it jumps around and doesn't exactly complete ideas or sentences, but that was sort of the point. It was a major action/drama scene and I just imagined the characters to be so confused that they didn't have the time to put things together. I may, however, revise it later. Keep checking back from time to time for re-posted chapters.

This is it! This is the epilogue, this is the wrap-up, this is the official end! I'm saddened by the thought of the story being complete, but it also gives me great joy. I've spent around two years working on this - it's the first chapter novel I've ever completed and it's given a great sense of satisfaction. I hope that all who read it will be happy with this. It's taken a long time to figure out exactly how I wanted it to end. It is a romance first and foremost, so I owe the reader some love before the back cover closes. Again, thank you, thank you, thank you to all who read and reviewed! It has made me so happy. Enjoy!

* * *

The bathroom was painted a soothing lavender shade, fading into a white as the light from the opened window streaked across the wall. It glinted off the small square of a mirror and Hermione looked away. There were bobby pins jutting out of her tightly-pressed lips as she wandered the cool, tiled floor. Her shoes were still lying outside of her closet in the other room and would be forgotten until the last minute. The air was fresh with simple fragrance of budding trees and dew. The ladybug that brushed past her shoulder smelled like summer. She sighed with closed eyes.

There was a rustling from the next room, as the bathroom door was left open and inviting. Ron was limping across the hardwood floor in front of their bed dressed in nicely-pressed pants and a cotton undershirt. His hair was still damp and messed about his ears. He was in search of a collared shirt that hung somewhere in the depths of his unruly closet. His feet were warmed by the April sun.

The breeze drifted across Hermione's bare arms, tickling the flesh timidly. Her neck trembled with the sudden chill. She could not brush away the prickled feeling as her hands were tangled in curls, trying to achieve a clean semblance of a French twist. At last, the bobby pins were perilously in place.

"Ron?" she called, arching her neck to catch the reflection of her handiwork in the mirror. "Will you bring me my dress?"

"Where is it?" his gruff voice replied from far away.

Hermione licked her upper lip and tasted her lipstick. "Laid out on the bed." She ran her hands over her cheeks and up towards her forehead, smoothing the hair that had managed to spring forward despite her best effort.

Ron appeared in the doorframe a moment later, his shirt unbuttoned and a tie loose around his neck. Draped over his freckled hands was a shift dress. "You look fine in that."

Hermione smiled. "I can't go out in this," she replied, picking up an earring from the white sink top and pulling it through her ear, "it's a slip. It's supposed to go underneath."

"I know," he said, leaning his shoulder against the wall and watching her with great interest. She tugged the other earring through, consulting the mirror again. "You just look better in that."

Hermione laughed tentatively, grabbing her dress from him. "Get dressed."

Ron's fingers deftly found the buttons and slipped them through their appointed slots in the crisp, white fabric. He liked to watch her prepare in the mornings – her routine was appealing and vaguely sensual. The way she would smooth lotion across her shoulders or slide a skirt over her hips kept his attention every day of every week of every month they had spent together. Even now, as she lifted her arms and carefully allowed her dress to drift over her body, Ron's eyes widened and he forgot all about the tie underneath his clothing.

Hermione turned her head and caught him. "You look like a fool," she teased. "The tie is supposed to go outside the collar. It's like you didn't live in a uniform for seven years at all. Try it again, love."

Ron almost blushed, dipping his head. "Can't help it," he grumbled. "Just can't."

---

"That was a lovely speech," Ginny said in a low voice, her eyes skimming the vibrant grass underneath her shoes. "I'm sure he would have appreciated it. Viktor, too." Her eyes stung with tears, but they were useless and irritating. She nodded her head and lifted her gaze back to Dean.

Dean's hand was on Ginny's shoulder in a moment, squeezing with appropriate comfort. "It was difficult," his voice was familiarly soft, deep. "But they deserve it." He smiled sheepishly and breathed in the sweet air of spring. "To be completely honest," his voice broke a bit, "I keep thinking that Viktor will walk up here and throw an absolute fit for wasting valuable Ministry time and resources. I'd have to give my job back. It's ridiculous, I know, but there's always that chance. It's okay with me."

Ginny returned the smile, baring her teeth. "He does have quite the temper."

"Alright," Dean breathed, feeling her body stiffen under his touch. "I'd better go mill around for a bit. Collect compliments – you know, that sort of thing. Stay as long as you'd like. I'll be around to see you out." He put his hand back by his side and began looking to the tables spread out across the hill. People were collecting food on small plates and picking up small cups of lemonade. He could faintly hear the buzzing of voices and the high pitches of laughter.

Ginny swayed backwards. "Okay," she returned, following his eyes. "See you later." She didn't feel hungry, but went towards the food-laden tables anyway. Her shoulders brushed against the filmy fabric of dresses and the rigid feel of suits. There were a few smiles, a few eyes smudged with tears, a few hands that reached out to grasp hers in seconds-long solidarity. She babbled her way through the crowd and wandered with a cup of cold drink over to the platform Dean had delivered his speech from.

It was like an outdoor graduation. There was an elevated stage with a podium placed in the middle. It overlooked metal folding chairs, spotted with crumpled bits of paper – the remnants of the pamphlets with Seamus' faced splashed over the cover. How easily some could forget this whole thing, Ginny thought to herself angrily. She squinted as she meandered through the rows of seats, the sun directly overhead at this point in the day. Eventually, Ginny found herself standing directly in the middle of the whole ordeal – the seats behind her, the stage in front, and the blown-up pictures of Seamus Finnigan and Viktor Krum on either side. It was simply part of the honoring ceremony – the only presentation of the men the crowd was celebrating that was appropriate for the occasion.

Ginny's free fingers skimmed across the smooth paper. She touched Seamus' red cheek, rounded over his exposed ear, and down towards his collar. He was dressed in his regular Order uniform – starched, black robes and dress shirt, with a shaved head and a no-nonsense visage. Seamus was completely still beneath her touch – it was a Muggle photograph her father had suggested at the last minute. "It'll be easier to deal with," he had said, "trust me." Ginny had let him do whatever he pleased. She was looking forward to being done with the ceremony.

Seamus had passed away two weeks after the _incident. _He never fully regained consciousness, but mumbled some in the troubled dreams he slept through while nestled in St. Mungo's. Ginny had been at his bedside frequently. She listened to his pain, watched his life disappear, and cried when his body was carried from the room. A small, closed funeral was held three days later out in the Irish countryside. He was buried next to his parents with a grey tombstone that read _Seamus Patrick Finnigan. 1979 - 2004. Dedication. Loyalty. Faith. _It was a touching little remain that the Order had funded – it was the least they could do.

Viktor Krum did not receive a tombstone. Proof of death had not been established. Though the battle site had been picked over several times in the past months, Viktor's body had not been found. For some, that meant the shining glimmer of hope – that Krum was still out there, somewhere, wandering about. To Ginny, however, it was just another cruelty served by the unjustness of that night. His body had burned along with pile of corpses beneath him. His heroics, his duty to the Order had been rewarded with his picture hanging in the corridor leading to Dean's office. There was a small plaque underneath with his name.

There was talk of establishing a memorial to the fallen. A nice, bronzed statue for the rest of the Order to glance at on their way to work. A small fountain with a coin-paved bottom for the wishers and dreamers. A garden in a sunny patch of London with a bench or birdfeeder for each name. Ginny would have nothing to do with it. Her interaction with the Ministry and the Order had evaporated. Her last official act was to chair the Honoring Ceremony. It was better that way, though it proved very difficult to face the living Order here, today.

They were all out there on the hillside. Ginny could pick them out easily. They all wore uniforms today – their black robes sticking out easily against the colorful backdrop. She imagined they were hot, sweaty, tired, in the warming spring sun. She saw her brother – still tall, still gangly – taking a seat at a table. His hair had been pushed messily off his freckled forehead and stuck up all around his ears. He sat next to Luna and Neville, chatting with a solemn face. She hadn't expected them to show up, but Seamus had kept contact with his schoolmates well after Hogwarts had ended. Ginny swallowed, swaying.

Hermione appeared by her side shortly after. She, too, wore the oppressive black cloak. It was unzipped all the way down and flowed around her calves. Hermione took her time examining Viktor's picture. Her red eyes soaked in his taught mouth, his pronounced nose. She could still see him as a teenager. He smiled as he tripped over her feet during the Yule dance.

"You don't have to wear that thing," Ginny told her, still surveying the crowd. "You haven't been a part of the Order for three years."

"It's tradition," Hermione bit, "Viktor would have wanted it this way."

Ginny said nothing. She felt tense all over.

"It's my way to honor him. Respect them both."

"Alright, I understand," Ginny returned, not wanting to hear anything more. She wished Hermione would go away. Usually she didn't feel angry, but today was full of exceptions. Hermione still had a good semblance of normal life, while Ginny was living with her parents and struggling to find work. Hermione still had Ron, while Ginny was left unaccompanied to the ceremony. Harry had a meeting at the Order to determine his settlement award that morning. He was, indeed, trying to take a desk job. He was trying to settle down. "It just takes time," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "I'll be there as soon as I can." There was no trace of him yet.

"Well," Hermione sighed, "I should leave you alone, I think." She smiled as best she could; accepting again that her relationship with Ginny would never be as close as it once was. She understood the powerful impact of grudges. She could live with the little bit of tension left over from the resolution Ginny would make as she slowly learned to forgive and forget. Time was neutral. It could begin to heal, though there were no promises of complete recovery.

Ginny caught her eyes for a moment. Guilt stabbed her chest in one feral swoop. She said nothing.

"Ron wanted me to check on you," Hermione breathed, turning her back to Viktor. It was a picture she'd seen enough of now. "We're both going back to the Burrow and staying a couple of days. He wants to see you after all this ends. I hope he will."

"Sure." Ginny's voice cracked over the words, as if she hadn't spoken in a week. Her frown hurt. "That's fine. I'll see you at home."

Hermione's fingers brushed Ginny's arm as she walked towards the others.

---

Hermione could hear the rumble of Ron's voice as she stretched out on the floor. He and Ginny had been speaking quietly for an hour or so. Hermione's eyes shut as she let her body relax against the worn rug. It was nice to be surrounded by so many people, so much family. Ron and Hermione had eaten dinner surrounded by their loved ones, sat by the fire and read shared parts of the newspaper, and eventually retired to an extra bedroom Molly had aired out for their arrival. It was strange to call Mrs. Weasley _Molly_ now, but the woman had insisted on it. Hermione wasn't a girl anymore.

Ron had kissed her forehead after slipping out of his good clothes and into his regular, ratty attire. He still fit into his tattered Chudley Cannons shirt. George had found it months before, crammed under his bed. He proudly displayed the dusty garment to his brother during a quiet moment in the hallway. "Be careful," George had warned him softly, "you never know if Fred did anything to it. I certainly can't remember." The grin that stretched across his mouth had been sincere. Ron returned it with his own, long smile that crinkled his eyes and heated his cheeks.

Hermione had heard Ginny's footsteps down the creaking staircase, mumbling something as Ron pulled her along. She imagined they sat in the kitchen. The soft candlelight would glow on the table as Ron poured rum into tiny cups. He wasn't particularly good at heart-to-hearts, but he was set on this one. Hermione hadn't said anything about it – it wasn't her decision. There was a bit of apprehension in the back of her mind, however, as the Weasleys were not known for their cool headedness. Ginny was having problems and might not appreciate Ron's intervention.

However, the rumble of conversation was steady and low. That was good. Hermione felt the sharpness of the day become hazy. The emotions began to drift. The tears she had shed were distant. She was at home now. She could rest comfortably as soon as Ron was back. Maybe she would fall asleep and he would find her stretched out across the carpet at the end of the bed. Maybe he would pick her up gently and tuck her into the bed, careful not to lean on her hair. Her hair that now brushed her collarbone, her hair that was now long, now curling wildly as it pleased. She would wake up next to him and a new day would begin. That would be nice.

"What are you doing?"

"Shit!" Hermione cried, eyes springing open wide. She saw nothing. "Who's there!" she demanded. She pushed herself to her feet shakily before wrapping her arms over her chest. Her pulse began to pound heavily in her ears. Fear crept up her legs and made them itch. Her nightmares sometimes began like this.

"I'm over here," the voice grumbled. There was a body sitting in the wicker chair next to the nightstand. He waved in one, fluid motion, before resting his hands back in his lap. "Hello," he said in a pleasant enough manner.

"_Viktor?_" Hermione hissed, leaning towards the apparition in the dark. She squinted, though there was plenty of starlight coming in through the window. Viktor Krum was sitting rigidly in the chair – just as he would at his desk while working – glaring at her. "Viktor!"

"Yes," he replied.

Hermione could not tear herself away from the paralyzing fear that still kept her body prisoner. "That's not possible," she whispered. She began to shiver. "This isn't possible. I must be dreaming." Sometimes it helped to talk through her dreams – it helped her disconnect from the horrible images that presented themselves during sleep. "You can't be here."

"Well," Viktor said in a much softer voice, "I am." He had no idea how to go about this. Hermione was the first person he chose to show himself to – the reaction was a bit unnerving, but not unexpected.

"No!" Hermione said forcefully. Her nose began to sting, her eyes began to water. "That can't be true! I went to your funeral!"

"Shh," Viktor rose from his seat, hands outstretched. "Keep your voice down. Ron might hear. I don't want him attacking thin air and upsetting everyone else." Viktor took a few, tentative steps forward.

Hermione watched him move. Her throat closed up as realization bloomed in her mind. Viktor was grey, pale, haggard-looking. His feet barely touched the ground. It could be a trick of the dark and the time, but…

"Are you…?" she could barely force the question out. Her lips trembled as they hung open, useless.

Viktor stopped, sighed, and put a hand to his temple. "…A ghost?" he finished. "Yes. It's difficult to explain, but all you need to know-"

"A _ghost?_" she breathed, feeling the air slip from her chest. Her knees bent, arms huddled close, head bowed, Hermione felt hollow. Viktor was there – a visible soul – in her room. _Speaking to her. _The grieving process Hermione had led herself through after losing a loved one began to unwind. Her acceptance, her anger, her grief, her doubt – she could feel every emotion as clear as it struck her the first time. Her vision began to blur as blinking had been forgotten. "That's not possible."

"It is!" Viktor insisted, looking slightly annoyed. "I'm right here, aren't I? Trust me." He had spent a lot of time alone in the previous months, flitting in and out of existence. Contrary to his previous beliefs, ghosts just did not _appear_. They were _created_. A soul must become realized, become concrete through effort. It was literally like pulling his body out of thin air. Viktor felt tired all the time, though he knew feeling would eventually leave him. Tangibility was just a memory yet to be forgotten. Being invisible was better than nothing.

"How?" her voice was soft as it hovered in the air between them.

"It's a long explanation," Viktor explained. "I don't really want to talk about it. I just want to be around people for a while. I tried to find you at your flat, but. I found a letter sitting in your reading chair talking about the Honoring Ceremony." He felt like blushing, though his skin wouldn't betray him that way anymore. Still, he scratched the back of his head as his gaze fell. "I followed the two of you here. I've been waiting for a while."

Hermione began to cry. Deftly, her fingers wiped away her tears. "I can't believe this," she repeated with a changed tone. "Viktor." She took a step forward and reached out for him. Her hands went straight through his torn robes. They both flinched.

"Sorry," he sighed.

"I would hug you if I could," she gasped, staring at her hands. "Oh, God, Viktor. You have no idea the worry you've caused!"

Viktor could not help but roll his eyes. He remembered accusations like this from his school days. _Viktor, you should really stop staring and study. Really, what would people think with you over there drooling like that? Viktor, why haven't these reports been signed? I can't exactly waltz into the Minister's office with unverified information! Viktor, please, just iron your shirt. You can't be productive if you look like a slob. _Hermione had not changed – still worrying about appearances, the veneer of perfection. What did he care now? He was still dressed in a bloodied, burned outfit that would scare children and horrify their mothers. Looks meant little to him. However, this did not mean he couldn't feel sympathy. He knew exactly the amount of time that had passed – four months – and how long a heart could take not knowing. He felt ashamed in some absurd way.

"Sorry," Viktor replied, ducking his head warily. "You know I couldn't help it."

Hermione's tears ran fresh and unchecked down her cheeks. "I'm shocked," she told him. "This is just so… surreal." Ghosts generally weren't friends. Not anyone she knew previously, anyway. They were old, untouchable, fading in an out of memory so quickly that Hermione forgot about their presence until she drifted through them again.

Viktor was not the case.

"Sit down," she said quietly, gesturing to the wicker chair again.

Viktor sat with a smile. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed with her elbows digging into her knees and her head sagging into her palms. They did not speak for a long while. Hermione could feel Ron's voice through her feet. He had no idea. No one knew.

"How have you been?" he asked gently. Though he no longer had a pulse, Viktor still felt jittery and nervous – like he was on a first date all over again. He could feel electricity running swiftly over his arms and down the back of his neck. This acceptance was new, young, fragile. It took an effort to keep the welling emotions inside and under control.

Hermione shook her head and sniffed. "Fine, just fine… I guess. I've made an easy recovery. There are a couple of scars still left, but nothing a potion or two can't cure."

"That's good."

Hermione glanced at him. There he was, sitting plain as day in her bedroom. His face looked exactly the same. Albeit, his pallor had grayed remarkably, cuts lined his chin, and his hair had come out in the back to reveal a large, scabby gash. Torn, blood-stained clothes hung off his shoulders and pooled around his ankles. Viktor had turned out to be quite a sight. Perhaps she shouldn't have brought up her health.

"I can't believe you're actually dead," she burst. A red smudge of embarrassment crossed her cheeks. "Not that I can't see you perfectly now, but… Viktor… everyone had hopes that you'd make it back someday, well, looking quite differently. I'm sorry; I know I sound horribly offensive. I'm really trying not to be, but the Order's expectations have all been dashed now."

Viktor shrugged. "I intend to return and collect some sort of settlement. They owe me that much, I suspect. Ghosts can't do much with the regular currency. I figure I'll donate it or split it among you lot. Everyone's expectations will just have to change."

Hermione nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears with steady hands. The normalcy of their conversation had a strange effect on her. Despite all odds, she was still able to function relatively well.

"I guess you know that Seamus is dead," she sighed.

Viktor grimaced. "Yeah. That's a real shame. A real, damn shame. How's Ginny taking it?"

Hermione shrugged, feeling the prickle of ice across her skin. "She's angry, but it gets a little better every day. Ron's got her downstairs trying to figure out how to move out of the Burrow."

"What about Harry?" Viktor snapped.

"He's fine, I think. Quitting an Aurorship isn't as easy as some might think. There has to be a reason and the Order'll do anything to keep him. He's finishing up some things and looking for an apartment for the two of them. I don't know how long that'll take, though, considering its Harry."

Viktor bobbed his head, feeling his tension resolve bit by bit. "And Ron?"

"Fine," Hermione beamed unintentionally. "He's taken a job as an apothecary. Still does some freelance work for the Order. We've bought a beautiful apartment on the coast."

She watched his eyebrows rise and couldn't help but to laugh. "You two are together still?"

"Yes!" she cried indignantly. "And we're thinking of buying a dog!"

"Just making sure you're okay, too."

"You don't have to come back to babysit, Viktor," Hermione smiled. "We'll all be fine eventually."

"I came back to settle my business," he replied tersely. "I'm going back to the Order and demanding a job. So long as I can, I'll be working. Ginny and Harry's problems don't upset me, but I can still feel. I can care."

"Fine," Hermione backed off. "I didn't mean to sound insensitive."

Viktor ran his hands over his face. He took a great breath and let it out slowly. When he dropped his hands, he was smiling sadly. "Jesus Christ. I don't mean to sound so… old. I'm happy to be here again. I can't wait to see everyone else. They can't possibly have a worse reaction than you."

"If I could hit you," Hermione grumbled playfully, "I would."

---

The morning was foggy with mist and a long, vast span of graying clouds. The Weasley's yard limped with the weight of dew. Ron took a seat on the lounge chair that had been left on the patio for several weeks. He could feel his jeans soak up the rain, but it didn't matter that much. He had a mug of coffee and company to keep him distracted. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Ron turned his head to regard Viktor.

Viktor sat in the lounge chair a few inches away. In the light of the early morning, he looked worse than ever. Ron had to control his flinching reaction every time he caught a peak at the back of his companion's head. He would just have to get used to it. At least, that's what Viktor had snapped a few nights ago after being bothered for too long.

"Can I ask you something?" Viktor prompted, looking a bit sheepish. His gaze was not on Ron, but gazing out into the yard.

"Shoot," Ron returned, sipping at his coffee. Usually he didn't wake this early and his body was still in a sleep-drugged state. His knees ached around this time – they weren't used to walking around yet. He had broken both of them in his jump and he remembered the freefall with every twitch and let-out.

"You and Hermione," Viktor began, trying to look as cool as he could, "yeah?"

"Yeah," Ron said, glancing over at him. "Why? What's wrong?"

Viktor sighed and looked Ron straight in the eye. "When are you going to propose to that girl? She told me all about the house and the pet and the job and how wonderful it all goes for you two. Why don't you just do it? No sense in leading her on."

There were a few beats of complete silence. Ron burst out laughing. His voice rang out loudly across the lawn and reverberated against the windows behind them. His body was shaking so hard, he had to place his coffee on the table between them. He laughed so hard tears began streaming down his cheeks and his breath caught in his chest. Laughter pealed out of his mouth, flowing off his tongue in a gushing stream. Words would not block its path.

Viktor warmed. "What?" he demanded, "What did I say?"

Ron sniffed, wiping the tears away from his eyes. If only that poor git knew what was going to happen in a matter of an hour or so. The timing was less than perfect; Viktor would soon know that and that embarrassed look on his face would surely become permanent.

"Stop laughing at me!" Viktor continued, "You're going to wake up everyone else."

"I can't help it, mate," Ron replied, licking his lips. His cheeks hurt. It took a great amount of effort to settle down again. "I just can't."

"What did I say?" Viktor repeated his question.

"_Ronald!_" a voice shrieked from the kitchen inside.

Ron cocked his head.

"_Ronald Weasley!_" Hermione screamed as she trampled down the staircase. Her hands were shaking around a tiny, black box. She hadn't the courage to open it yet. She flew through the kitchen and threw open the screen door to where _that man_ was lounging about.

Ron winked at Viktor, feeling his pulse race. "Yes?" he asked innocently.

Hermione stopped short as her feet met the cool, cracked pavement. "Did you hollow out the inside of my book to cram _this thing_ inside?" she demanded, her hair frizzing around her face. She looked like a wild woman. She shoved the parcel under Ron's nose. "Did you ruin my book just for this? Do you think this is _funny_?! Don't look at Viktor – look at me! _Did you_?"

Ron dipped his head innocently. "What's inside?" he asked, peering up at the box.

"That's not the point!" Hermione cried, exasperated. She set the box down on the table next to his hot coffee. "Hello, Viktor. It's lovely to see you this morning." Her eyes closed as she ran her hands through her hair and over her face.

Viktor managed a small, "Morning," as he watched Ron slip off his chair. Hermione wasn't paying him any attention as he held the black box in his palm. Viktor figured his participation in this scene would not be needed. He vanished a few moments later feeling a fool.

"Well," Ron cleared his throat, "This wasn't exactly the way this was supposed to happen, but this will just have to do."

"What are you doing?" Hermione griped. "Get up! You shouldn't do that to your knees, Ron. Stop being silly and go and fix my book."

Ron glared up at her. "Will you just shut up for a moment?" he snapped, but not uncaringly. Hermione's eyes widened and her mouth opened, but she seemed shocked enough to stay quiet for a good while. "Anyway," he grinned, snapping the box open. "Hermione Jane Granger, you insufferable, lovely, beautiful, know-it-all – I love you. Despite everything, I can't help but love you each and every day. I love waking up to you and going to sleep know you're there." His face grew serious as he grasped her hand. "I want to marry you... for real this time. I'm not much good at this sort of thing, but I want you. That's it. Just you and me. Do you think you could agree to that?"

Hermione sunk to her knees, cupping the box in her hands. She paid no attention to the ring.

"Will you be my wife?"

"Yes," she gasped, staring into his freckled face. Swiftly, she leaned forward and kissed him.

* * *

**A/N: **I loved writing this story, truly I did. And I sincerely hope that you all liked reading it, too!

I titled the epilogue _The Times They Are A-Changin'_ in reference to the great and wonderful Bob Dylan. You may or may not have noticed that all of my chapter titles - as well as the title for the overall piece - came from songs that I listened to while I wrote. If you can guess most of the bands and singer/songwriters - more power to you. I just that would be a cool little theme throughout.

Please leave one last review before moving on to some other work! I appreciate the feedback and the slaps to my ego when I wander. I hope to have another story like this again - not too soon, though. I think I need a little break before another masterpiece. ;) I hope to read some of your works, too, in my newly-found free time! I hope you all have a wonderful day. I thank you again from the bottom of my heart for your dedication. You did, after all, make it through thirty-four chapters.


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